Last Stand

The huge slate grey kodo beneath him heaved on its own great bulk as Rygen spurred the beast on, leather harness straining against the huge weight of the animal. Behind him he could hear the pursuers, shouting at each other in their strange language and their own steed's hooves clattering on the hard track. Lush grassland stretched away on either side, with no hiding places for Rygen. He could only run.
They were gaining on him. He glanced back; the attackers were still behind the rise but it wouldn't be long before they closed the distance. It was no use: the warhorses were faster than his fat old kodo.
He glanced fearfully back again, huge tauren neck muscles stretching as he craned his massive head.
There they were.
Six of them, five on horses, one on some kind of goat. The goatrider was obviously a dwarf, short stature making him stand out from the other figures. A deep blue hooded cloak hid his leather armour and face; only an ale-stained beard poked from beneath the hood. In his hands rested a mahogany silver-plated rifle.
He cocked it.
"No!" Rygen cried as the blunderbuss emitted a low boom with a puff of black smoke. His kodo shuddered beneath him and roared in agony, slowing to a pained crawl. Bright red blood splashed on the track from its left back leg, staining the dirt maroon. The agonised beast convulsed violently and Rygen was thrown off its back.
The horses kept on galloping towards them. He had to fight. No where to run to now.
The riders dismounted, drawing glimmering shortswords and hefting large shields. The crest of Lordaeron was emblazoned on their armour and shields. All of their equipment was immaculate, in contrast with Rygen's own stained tribal vestments. But he had the advantage of the spirits, he told himself.
And a rather more hefty advantage, too. He unharnessed this advantage from his back and slammed it to the ground with an ear-shattering roar of hate for the pinkskins. The huge, carved totem pole created a mini-earthquake below their feet. Images of tribal gods and idols decorated the wood. It was easily as tall as one of the humans.
The attackers shouted to each other, organizing themselves into a rough circle around the wounded kodo and its rather more capable rider. They advanced cautiously, closing the ring like a hangman's noose.
Rygen roared a challange and charged at the nearest one, not letting them surround him. The totem pole swung up with steel-shattering force, slamming into the poor soldier relentlessly. Rygen felt the breastplate buckle under the tremendous force, the leather jerkin beneath compressed to a singularity. Ribs creaked for a second and then splintered, sending bone fragments tearing through the squeezed vital organs like grenade shrapnel. Bones sheared through flesh and skin, flying out of the victim's back. The concussive force of the blow finally threw him backwards at least ten feet.
The mangled man flopped to the ground and Rygen span, not letting the soldiers strike at his vulnerable back. One of them tottered away to be sick but the other three closed in, more wary now of the berserk tauren. They all lunged at once, swords slashing down, eager for the flesh of their enemy. Rygen flipped the totem pole horizontally and brought it up, blocking the trio of attacks. Before they could recover and attack again, he lashed out with his hoof, the unforgiving surface crunching into the leftmost soldier's abdomen. He yelled in pain and fell back, leaving a weakness in the line. Rygen quickly slipped in and headbutted the centre soldier in the neck, his left horn shearing through the soft tissue and rupturing the jugular. He gurgled and sank to the floor, flailing as his life juice pumped away.
The third soldier, maintaining discipline despite all, landed a quick blow on Rygen's right arm, forcing him to drop his heavy weapon. The man darted backwards before Rygen could retaliate. Instinctively, the tauren reached for his dropped weapon, too late realising his mistake. The silvery blade cut down like a guillotine on his exposed neck. With catlike relfexes, Rygen twisted, grabbing the man's sword arm and snapping it with a quick flick of his arm. The sword clattered to the ground as the man screamed in pain and terror.
Not bothering with fancy antics, Rygen simply pushed all of his body force into his rock-hard bunched fist, and punched the man full in the face. His head snapped back and the screaming stopped abruptly.
Searing pain erupted in his back. The fifth soldier! Rygen yelled with fury and reached backwards, body fueled by hate and rage. He felt the man's shoulders, grabbed, and flipped him over his head, the man's back crunching painfully as it hit the ground in front of him. Rygen saw the man's terrified face and took pleasure in the sight.
The last thing the man saw was the bottom of Rygen's hoof.
Rygen turned slowly. The dwarf was still sat on his goat. He hadn't moved at all since the battle started, simply watching his comrades fall one by one.
"Too cowardly to take me on, huh? Come and have a go, you heartless stump!" Rygen roared at the unmoving dwarf.
Again, he was too late to realise his mistake.
He stared down the dark barrel of the silver-plated rifle.

Oof. You copy-pasted this from Word then? Need double carriage returns to demolish the wall o' text.