The fight wasn't going to last much longer. That wasn't really a hope inside Ithacles, it was just the circumstance. They'd already felled three of them. One dead and two miserable.
Their fire mage was standing right inside their campfire like some sort of illusionist. His feet down in the glowing coals, orange and yellow flames licking up his legs. And he was hunched over, gathering flames into his hands like it was packable snow.
It was impossibly cold. He knew his fingers were frozen to the hilt of his sword without even testing it. His hand was crippled with an awful cramp, and he forced it to stay strong enough to lift the blade.
His breath hung in the air. Someone came at him with a spear. It banged off his shiled, loud. The mage was shouting something alien. Another bang of the blunt speartip on the surface of his shield. This time it screeched like a fork on a dry plate.
Ithacles turned his entire body into the counter strike. He was too frigid for finesse. It was a telegraphed blow, a low slash, but the bandit too was sluggish. He didn't even scream when his thigh was torn open; maybe too numb? His leather breeches popped at contact with the blade and there was a gout of hot, red blood. It splashed down onto the stone and seemed to freeze within seconds.
Tee man fell. Ithacles dropped his shield down, ramming the beveled edge into the crown of his head.
And then he shoved off from the wall. He needed to charge at the mage; but the remaining two had surrounded him, weapons ready.