Solgar
an excerpt

Solgar rose up on his right arm, lifting his head and eyes just above the sea of bodies. In front of him lay the twisted body of his childhood friend Hans Olson, his fair blue eyes turned milky white. Lying on his left side, in his right hand Hans still held one of Solgar’s famous silver daggers, no defense against the sword stroke that ripped his stomach open from his throat down, leaving his spilled guts steaming like sausages in the hot afternoon sun. Solgar was not sure how long he lay on the field, his creased and dented helmet sat upright at his feet, explaining why the back of his head felt like an anvil pounded by the devils’ blacksmith. Searching his stomach, arm, and legs, he could find no wounds even though blood and gore covered his doublet and leggings.

"I survived," he thought, reaching out to touch the cold face of his dead friend, "but did we win?" Radiating out from Hans, dead bodies formed the puzzle pieces that would eventually determine whether Duke Haskin or Solgar was King.