Drabble: The Front

Letter from the Front:

In the end, it was hand to hand.  The archers, arrowless, stuck
daggers where they could.  I with my broadsword, and the shield I took
from my brother, hacked and poked and blocked. My comrades and I
fought, and bled, and died, while the enemy, seemingly numberless, did
the same.  They pushed us back, but they paid and paid, a gallon of
blood for every inch.  Finally, it seemed even the frenzied horde had
its limit.  They fell back, and we regained our losses, making a crude
replacement for the broken gates.

And came the morning, we buried our dead.




(This is from a cherished guest writer, Guarf.)