Night rolled in from the east, a thick tangible web of shadow. Starlight was held back by ominous clouds . Thunder rang out like so many hammers on anvils from the north. And then they came, howling from the hills, green clad wretches that swarmed down the slopes of the dark mountains and flooded the field like a rancid river. They were horrid, ghastly things, goblinoids of ill intention. They bore standards of death and icons of slaughter. Their helms were adorned with grim horns, and the skins of foes were stretched taught across their shields. They rushed toward the ranks of men, their dizzying caterwaul rumbling in the air. And a monster ran with them, a black skinned fiend of devilish birth that raised a maddening howl from his throat. The cry wailed past his forward thrust tusks and carried with it a spray of foul stinking spittle. He bellowed commands in the guttural tongue of his kind. The meaning of it was lost to mortal ears. The heavy horse that faced them advanced, lances set. Battle shod hooves thundered across the field. Nervous horses moaned their discontent. Each enemy rushed headlong into the other, eyes locked on helms in hatred. The riders were silent, teeth gritted in the confines of their helms. The goblinoid warriors lifted their cries into a deafening boom as they beat the din of war upon their shields with their merciless, blunt blades. They stood willingly in the paths of the heavy horse, grinning doom as the lancers rode down upon them. There was a moment of silence, it seemed, and mortal ears were filled only with the sound of their heartbeats roaring in their ears. The clouds opened for only a second, and starlight played across armor and steel like lightning over water. But the clouds overtook the stars once more, and darkness engulfed the field. Lances shattered, and foes fell away, but more rose up to drag the men from their mounts. The footmen charged forward, and a great clash of flesh and steel resounded across the valley. The black and green of the enemy engulfed the colors of men. Gunter cut quickly through the first of his enemies, and even the second wave fell screaming from his blade. He smelled the stench of fetid goblin blood as it ran through the chinks in his armor and spattered his face, stinging his eyes. But it was only pain. As time dragged on, he and his comrades grew weary. The goblin forces were dwindling in number, but they always pressed forward, never seeming to tire. Gunter saw fewer and fewer of his fellows around him, as they fell to the strokes of the green clad villains. He could see that the villagers were being crushed beneath the hordes, torn by their weapons, and rent by their powers.