15 Minute Fiction Friday - 31st May
Struggling for breath, he tore his blade from the body beneath him.
Looking behind, his kinsman lay writhing, begging for death’s relief. Defeated, he knew it, but the battle was not over; it would never be over.
The stench of blood and death strengthened his resolve. He, King, last of his people, would make the final stand.
He gripped the hilt of his longsword, and closed his eyes. There they were, smiling back at him, waiting.
The approaching hooves grew louder, impending doom more potent. He turned, raising his blade, staring his fate down, ready for the King's final stand.