He had a lot of things to swear about, but primarily he swore he wasn't a coward. Damn him. Get up and fight. What did that whoreson say? Somehow, it made him sick to his stomach. That's all. He'd fought through worse than this. He'd sung through worse than this. Come on!
He couldn't do it. He stood there helplessly and tried to calm his stomach, which he keenly knew was empty anyway, while the corpses blindly rushed past him.
That damn spell was still hiding him from them. That's it, he thought. He'll just go and smack one of them and get into the fight. Then he'd feel the battle-fury coming back and shake off this sickness, and at least go down swinging.
He couldn't do that either. He could barely move. His eyes turned to the cleric, retching too as he fled the horde. All this was his doing, this whole rotten fucking mess. But he wouldn't die to the zombies. The orc would kill him himself before he'd let that happen. So he ran after him.
But it was no good. He watched as the armored man struck his war-brothers again and again, and he did nothing. Their green skins were struck through with red lines and their tusks gnashed, and no matter how much he wanted to share their fates, he couldn't lift a single limb to move to their defense.
He turned back the way they had come, expecting the horde to be at them now and it all to be over, only to see them falling upon the flailing body of Kona, who he could hear snorting and hollering, and he knew it would only be a few more moments before his death-scream would sound, and again he wished it had been him.
Turning again, he saw one of his war-brothers on the ground, staggering backwards toward him, as the man prepared to land the final blow. At last, he felt the malaise lift, and he ran forth roaring and grabbed the bastard by the throat. He screamed a hoarse, victorious laugh at the surprise in his eyes, and tightened his fingers to crush the life out of him. But the awful man pulled the hand from his throat, and threw him to the ground, and stabbed at him.
A great weight descended upon Trebuchet, and his vision went dark. As consciousness fled, he took solace in the fury of his final act.
...then, he found himself awake again, and he pushed himself to his feet, and there was everybody, all alive, if battered, waving him into the church. He took a last glance at the now-lifeless body of the bastard.
Huh.
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