“God will be my strength.” Tristan looked to his left. No one. He looked to his right. No one. His men had fallen back. They called his name in desperation, hoping their captain would join their flight. He would not, for he knew the cost of retreating. He knew what was expected of him in that moment. With most allied forces routed, only one battalion remained to resist the Gath onslaught until reinforcements arrived: Tristan’s battalion. Many would falter in the face of such terror, but not this man. Not on this day. He remembered his own father, the ill-fated Kendrick Rhys, charging into the orcish hordes on the fields of Pellmore. Yes, he swore to his dying father that he also would taste death before surrender. So he gripped tightly his father’s sword, that hallowed blade once wielded by kings of old, still a glutton for the blood of Arengard’s enemies. And on that day, it feasted.