Time seems to slow as the mob of men rush towards your spearman. You realize that you can't leave him strung out there alone to die, and give out a yell. Your archers, having turned towards the brigands, are ready, and they let loose a quick volley. It is brutally effective on the relatively unarmored brigands, felling six men and wounding the large one, whom you can only assume is Ox, in the arm. A few pause and duck behind trees, but there are still about eight coming your way, including Ox.
As you lack a horse at the moment, you instruct your infantrymen to rush forward and form a line. The three spearmen plus Tor make the center, with you on one flank and Alan on the other. You reach your stumbling man, who rushes past you. Before your archers can get another volley off, the lead brigands crash into your lines.
The fighting is quick and fierce. Three brigands go down in the initial charge, but they follow up and engage you up close before your men can get another spear thrust in. Two of the spearmen go down to clubs and wicked, short axes, and you are clubbed hard in the shield. The blow glances off and catches your hip, stinging you badly. You stumble back, and find Ox has bowled over Tor and is standing over him.
You desire to engage the brute, but the man in front of you has your attention. You swing clumsily, and he strikes down on your sword with his club, sending the weapon flying out of your hand. You almost panic, but you slam into him with your shield and buy a moment as he stumbles back to recover your weapon.
As the man swings wildly at you, you stay low on one knee and cut out his stomach, guts spilling crudely onto the forest floor. You turn your attention back to the melee. Alan has sunk his sword into the shoulder of Ox, but you see that Tor's head has been smashed in to a pulp by the massive man's club. Alan is also bloodied and lying on the ground.
Roaring in anger, you charge the wounded giant, stabbing at him frantically. He smacks at your sword with his club, but you manage to hang on. He rears back to strike at you, but an arrow takes him in the thigh. He doubles over reflexively in pain, and you dispatch him with a swift chop to the neck.
Seeing their leader fall, the few remaining brigands break. The archers on the hills take care of a few more, but you are certain that several, maybe five, have escaped.
You take stock of the damage. Tor is dead. Alan merely had his wind knocked out, plus a few minor cuts. Out of your original five spearmen, only two remain alive. The archers are uninjured. Your hip stings fiercely. You sit for a moment, catching your breath. What now?