Fight!
The fog clears and he's left standing in the field, unprotected by brush, trees or rocks and without a moment's hesitation the archers fire, their arrows so many different ways to die and he dodges, first to the left and then to the right, inhuman speed his only companion, and though many come close to delivering him to Valhalla, none have the honor, and for this he is glad, and with that joy, fueled by adrenaline, he takes his sword in hand first to one enemy soldier, and then to another, all the while avoiding their feeble attempts at counterattack, which rain down as much into the ground around him as into the bodies of those he falls, and though now his breath grows ragged, his muscles all push harder to keep fighting and in his head screams every God and Ancestor that ever was, and their words ring with the pure sound of voices untainted by the physical realm, and though the timbre and pitch of each voice varies, the message is consistent on the lips of the legion who once were: "You are a Viking," they tell him, "and you will not fall today."