does this suck or nah?

“archers!” milnows bellows. I’m not sure if he’s calling for ours or letting us know pointy things will be attempting to make new holes in our bodies. I scan left at the wall of the deserted kulaht where we have rallied to make a defense. Mostly made of mud bricks and timber eaves the kulaht seems to have been originally built to hold a small tribe of 40 to 50 plus livestock. Rather than a continuous structure it is more a collect of buildings folding around an open courtyard surrounded by a two man tall wall. Usually they have a stout timber door that buttons the whole place up to all but the most well prepared unwanted guests. This all makes for a very defensible position except the one we currently occupy hasn’t had a tenant for a while and the wall in front of the courtyard has fallen over leaving only knee high stumps that dip and rise to resemble rotten nubs of teeth. Fuck he meant theirs. Horse archers mill forward 200 meters in front of future our grave. Or would that be graves? Is it plural when we all share it? They cantor up in a group of 4. Carefree as can be. Almost like they intend to break under the small stand of palms and chill out for a quick pre-slaughter meal under the shade. Lazily I see them pull shafts from quivers and fit them to their recurve bows. The one wearing a blood red turban that’s wrapped over his mouth and nose to keep the sand out says something. I can’t hear because of the distance but I see the other 3 shake with laughter. Something to be said about a good sense of humor. The spread in a lose line and yell something to the small band of footmen behind them. They pull back their bows and let loose. Something in the back of my brain takes charge. I am suddenly spooning the low stones as arrows fly overhead. I hear them pass overhead, a few near miss kisses the crenelated stone inches above my face and tumble over me. At this point I think the guys on foot are advancing as we all seek cover. I resist the urge to peek over the stones and check. Getting shot in the face is probably a painful way to die and best left in the realm of theory. The fact that I have cracked my elbow against the remains of the fallen wall registers through the adrenal rush when I hear a mewling cry like a kitten begging for milk. I’m pulling my sword from its scabbard on my back but it’s not something I have practiced laying down. What’s supposed to be smooth is halting and jerky as I prop myself up on my elbow and scan down the wall. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuckface. The envoy is down. Slouched against the broken wall so that only his head and shoulders are touching the vertical remains of the mudbrick wall. The foppish cunt has grown two bristles in his blue and gold robes and His hands are cupped around his stomach like a pregnant woman caressing her unborn. Usually shrewd and hooded under their thick brows, his eyes are glassy and wide, He is staring at the rundown stables that are the centerpiece of the kulaht around which all of the other domiciles are built. Maybe he’s seeing the sickled one in the shadow of the dilapidated pens and stalls. Interestingly it turns out that he is. And oh how the harvest is ripe. The only thing that gives away his position among the eaves of the barn is the ripple of the rough brown cloak covering his body. Zeft cocks up like a cobra, takes aim beyond the wall and release all in one smooth stroke. How the fuck he hits anything balanced with the center beam clutched between his thighs is beyond me. I hear the hiss of the hydraulic arms of the fuerbow launching the dart. This is almost seamlessly followed by an airy whistle as the flight profile of the projectile changes, it’s spring load mechanism discharges and extends the arrow in flight, effectively doubling its length. The shearing crunch of metal defeating lesser representations of itself to tear at flesh is almost lost by the equine shriek of fear. Khot rings out on the last remaining section of a caved in roof. On the extreme opposite of Zeft they are set up to have converging Fields of fire. Hiss, whistle, metallic rip mated with rent flesh. In mere seconds the sounds that filter across the wall becomes a cacophony of confusion and pain. My sword is in my left hand and I keep it there, my right arm is feeling weak and clumsy below the elbow. Peals of bassy thunder hammer my eardrums in sync with my heart. Memories flash unbidden. The comforting feel of small hands lovingly nestled in mine, small innocent fingertips brushing the back of my palms. The taste of sweetsop. The smell of my prayer closet. My mother's laughter, shy eyes always slanting down when she smiled. Focal 3. Training kicks in I switch my mental focus outside my mind and stretch the plane wide trying to absorb as much information as possible. The wiz and clatter of incoming arrows is gone, just the unnerving melody of the fuerbows destroying bodies. I pop up teeth bared expecting the foot to be on us: Almost but not quiet. They are jogging in a loose pack of twenty or thirty with a fair number of their force strewn behind them on the pebble pocked sand streaming rivulets of red into the thirsty ground. They have to close quickly or be mauled by our marksmen. “ECHELON RIGHT!!” Milnos yells taking point on our slanted line. He skips forward over the wall ramming his sword into a footman’s chin and skips back across into the guard of the falcon. I am two men down the line and lose him in the frayed periphery of my vision's edge. I catch sight of our senior Charlie Veshte between us; Great sword poised for a downward slash. In a ripple the footmen crash on the scattered rocks of the wall and stumble through. A footman uses the wall to launch into the air and stab down at me overhand. The split pants tied at his ankles ripple, cords go taut in his neck and some wordless scream is lost in the press. I step into him midflight stabbing up across my body into his crotch, my right forearm pushing him up and over me. My blade drags across his left inner thigh as he tumbles over me opening up the femoral artery just on case my stab missed the inguinal. I’m in the thick of them focused on the moment. I trap a thrusted spear between the outside of my thigh and the flat of my right hand. A diagonal slice removes the wielder’s hand at the carpals. Two quick steps forward and it’s a knife fight. I hold the blade halfway down its length in half guard. My cross guard rips open a man’s cheek to my left before a double handed thrust crashes through the nasal bones of another, crushing the cunt's brainstem. I expect more resistance and the backward tug to free the blade of its newly minted meat scabbard makes me stumble back a bit. Oh but there is a god. Unintentional retreat turns an eye rending spear thrust into a skull scraping gash that instantly baths my eye in blood. I step back, one step, two. My heart is beating out of my fucking chest. Proprioception isn’t telling me where I am in relation to the formation. The sword has floated home into my right palm unconsciously. Where the fuck is my helmet? Pack horses.... fuck me. Veshte, god bless him. Intercepts a footman wielding a golden axe rushing into my blind side. The glint of the axe catches my eye like a parlor trick. It all ends abruptly with Vesh slicing off both the man’s legs in a furious horizontal blow. Zeft and Khot are dropping in arrows danger close and the footmen push hard to overflow us. The pressure is making them slide to our right flank seeking the path of least resistance as the long as the echelon holds. Someone catches at my leg. I can’t see and chop down with the hard edge of my left gauntlet. Another stumbles into me spear shaft upwards and smacks me in the fucking ear with it. I stab the fucker as hard as I can through his kidneys, wedging my hilt against his side. Fear, pain or some dying instinct makes him twirl away from me. My sword is gone in an instant, wedged in the bony loops of his pelvis. Something crashes into my ribs. My breastplate resisting a slash that should have opened up from nipple to clavicle. I reach for my dagger as a giant wielding a tulwar raises up for a downward slice. Time slows, my mind cycles through endless permutations and I know I am neither going to evade or block decapitation. I close so hard and desperately fast I pull my right hamstring. I push his sword elbow inward and push his face up and over trying to get him on the ground. He slaps my hands down and drops his hips. In all this malnourished land I happen upon the only man who is well fed and can fucking wrestle. He drops the tulwar and gets me in a double leg take down. I try to get his head in a hangman’s choke but sweat or blood causes his head to slip out of noose as I arch backwards. He’s on top pinning one of my right wrists with his knee. The tulwar drags behind on a chain affixed at his wrist. He smiles showing a vibrant row of white teeth. His left hand pins my own as I try to fight for advantage. His right is slowly reeling in the tulwar. Pull, drag, release, pull, drag, release. My left breaks out of his iron grasp. I shoot my hips up pulling my knees towards my chest. He adjusts trying to retain advantage and my right hand is free. My right hand is fucking free. I’m on my back outnumbered and weaponless but by god my right hand is free. I trap his left against my chest with my right hand. I grab the sword chain and pull his right into my chest and trap both wrists with my knees. I laugh. It’s the laugh of a lunatic. He tries pulling a back but it’s too late. I pull down on his wrist, push up with my knees and break both of his forearms. He screams the type of scream that empties the lungs and breaks the voice. I put my dagger through his ear and push his trembling mass from of me with my legs. I feel someone grab the drag handle on the back of my breastplate to pull me back. I have to grip the lip of the breastplate under my neck to keep it from choking me. “SHIFT! SHIFT! SHIIIFT!” Milnos yells and I hear the drumbeats of hoofs behind me.