Bryggan woke to screams, yells, and trumpets sounding. He had fallen asleep on his horse, and the sudden cacaphony caused him to fall out of his saddle. Most of his men had fallen asleep, and now the enemy was tearing through them. Through the slight moonlight piercing the overhead branches, Bryggan could see nothing but chaos. The few who had remained awake were vastly outnumbered and were being cut down, while those slumbering were murdered in their sleep. Bryggan tried to scramble up and grab his sword, but suddenly was aware of a great pain in his chest.
'Damn, a crossbow bolt got me,' he thought. He grasped around his chest, but could find no bolt and no blood. His chest felt constricted, like an elephant was sitting on him. 'Fuck this', he thought, 'I gotta fight!" Summoning all his will power, he stood up and brandished his sword. He tried to yell a battle cry, but he could not breath. Through his blurred vision he saw Snicklez, Magafox, Conrad and Steve Rogers frantically trying to defend their sleeping comrades. Damn good men those- true heroes. And he could have sworn he seen his wife, the Empress, fighting as well. He had to help them.
He ran several paces before the dizziness overcame him, and he crashed down in some brush unconscious.
He sort of came to some time later. He was being dragged through the underbrush by someone he could not make out. Whoever was pulling him was not a friend- they were taking no care for his comfort, and this was damned uncomfortable. 'Must be Rostham', he figured. Pulling him out of the battle to slit his throat so he won't have to deal with the political aftermath of killing a prisoner- a regal prisoner. Or maybe a bandit. The forests were full of them. Either he would be killed and stripped of his armour, or perhaps his captor would recognize him and ransom him. Though who would pay the higher ransom? His friends or his enemies?
Bryggan tried moving again. He couldn't. He was so damn weak. His chest was giving him occasional stabbing pain, and he felt ill. But no blood. Had someone hit him in the chest with a hammer? Whatever it was, he felt this was the end. Either a slit throat or a slow death. He felt this should bother him, but it didn't. He had had a good life. More adventures than most men- a peasant, a vassal, High King, a trader, and finally Emperor. Though an ignominious death did not suit him. He had meant to die gloriously on the battle field, surrounded by slain enemies, knowing that his heirs would take his place... ooh, more pain in his heart.
He could no longer open his eyes. The figure dragging him pulled him through a shallow forest stream. The water was cold, filling through the cracks in his armour. He could feel the rounded rocks sliding under his armour. 'Must be easier for him, pulling me through this,' was his last thought before oblivion overtook him.