"Barrier"

To let his arm fall was death.
Not only his death, but the death of all he loved, all he had trained for, all he had lived for. It would all die.
He was not about to let that happen.
His shield arm was long past numb. A bone stuck out of the skin on his forearm. But still he held his shield.
He'd lost count of how many men he had stabbed, how many arrows he had deflected off his shield. He had replaced his original spear for that of a fallen enemy. The balance of this weapon was less suited to the mid-range stabbing he was used to, and more suited to long range engagements. But he made due by gripping the weapon further up the shaft, closer to the head of the weapon. But it was unwieldy at best.
It mattered not. If it could skewer men, it would do.
A scrawny enemy soldier launched himself at his shield, only to be intercepted by the spear in his other hand. The enemy soldier caught it squarely in the face. The weapon punctured entirely through the soldier's helmeted head.
He manfully flicked the soldier off his spear, sending the enemy soldier's corpse flying through the air. He was pretty sure it smacked another enemy in the process. With his helmet limiting his vision, he could not be sure, but it was an amusing thought to nurture.
Even with his limited vision, all he could see were enemies. Light infantry, infantry, cavalry, and archers. Behind the archers was the enemy monarch, perched peacefully on his raised chair, no doubt comfortably eating grapes or some such delicacy with concubines on each of his arms.
Each and every one of them must die. Perhaps an exception could be made for the concubines.
An arrow pinged off the front of his helmet. The vibrations of the impact jarred his head and scrambled his senses. He hated archers.
A sudden, horrible jolt of pain shot up his shield arm. Apparently it had taken too much abuse. The bone was protruding more now, and his shield slanted dangerously low. He shouted a command and took a step back. Sure enough, one of the men behind him took his spot in the line. If his shield fell, all was dead.
He cursed.
He hated being on the back lines line this, resorting to simply stabbing those that clashed on the shields of his fellows in front of him. His shield arm felt useless, that is, it would feel useless if he could feel it.
Another enemy soldier took his too-long spear to the face. He allowed himself a small smirk. Maybe his long weapon would now be of better use.
 Still the sea of enemies advanced, and they were just now getting to the infantry. The light infantry was on its last legs.
The cavalry loomed in the distance on their horses. Archers peppered the sky with arrows.
All of them still had to die.
As for his ragtag group of soldiers, they were faring a little worse. Outnumbered five to one, they should have been slaughtered long ago. But here they stood. Still fighting. Still killing.
Still standing.
The primary problem was bodily endurance. His men could fight as long as their bodies could. He looked his increasingly bloody shield arm. He tried to raise it higher, as if to block an attack.
Perhaps this was a problem.
His arm had totally given out. No matter how hard he tried to raise it, it would not budge.
He looked up to the shield line. It still stood strong, the man in front of him brushing off every attack as if it were merely a mosquito bite. This was good. The enemy infantry was almost half-way depleted now.
His spear took an enemy soldier at an awkward angle and broke. His weapon had limits too, apparently.
He prayed the forward shield line could hold the enemy long enough for him to find another weapon.
His wish for another instrument of death was granted, but not in the way he wished. A comrade next to him took a javelin full in the face and dropped dead instantly. Both cursing his luck and thanking his now deceased comrade, he yanked the weapon free and continued stabbing.
He surveyed his men. Their numbers were slowly decreasing. Like a stubborn old rock being eroded away by the tide, they slowly, surely, were going to fall to this ocean of an enemy.
He surveyed the shield line. Enemy infantrymen were being dispatched almost as quickly as they charged. He allowed himself a small smirk.
If their infantry kept attacking the way they were, perhaps there was a chance at victory. Though slim, he had faith that he and his men could overcome this mass of screaming human weapons.
Then the enemy formation changed.
They were sending in the cavalry.
The mounted soldiers charged and were upon the line in an instant. There was no time to prepare.
He shouted a desperate command. His men obeyed.
The shield line broke just before the mounted enemy arrived.
Many of his men died. Many of the enemy cavalry died.
Somewhere in the midst of things, he had thrown his javelin. He saw it sticking out of the head of an enemy horse, its rider crushed beneath its corpse.
He looked around, his eyesight blurred and bloody. Many of his men were dead, but the enemy cavalry had been destroyed.
He looked at the enemy monarch's raised chair, so far away.
He hatched a desperate plan.
And charged.
He was weaponless. He had a useless arm that would surely be amputated should he survive. But he still had his shield.
He sensed that his remaining men were around him. They had gotten his plan. Good.
He heard the sounds of weapons rebounding off metal shields, men screaming, horses in death throes, arrows being loosed...but still his gaze was forward.
As long as he was alive, he would charge forward.
And he would end this fight.
The monarch was close, now. He could hear the cowardly ruler shouting commands. A kingsguard formed to combat him and his men.
He wondered how many men he had left.
No. He could no allow such thoughts now. He was close enough.
He took his shield in his good arm.
With all the momentum he had built in his charge, he hurled his shield directly at the monarch's perch.
Then he saw a flash, heard a sound, and felt a sting on his neck.
He saw the world spin.
One of the things he saw in that spinning, bloody world...
Was a monarch.
With a crushed head.
He allowed himself a small smirk.
And all was cold.