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. The battle of
twenty-five years ago was a memory that had been etched,
vividly, against the canvas of his brain. In his mind he
could still hear the white water frothing below him. He
saw, as if it had been this morning, the snorting oxen
lumbering toward him, steaming breath bursting from the
monstrous creatures' black nostrils.
And, as always with the memories, came the guilt, the
lingering sense of shame that would never quite give him
the room to breathe.
He knew the tale that legend had created, of course:
the power of Reorx had blessed him at the moment of
battle-truth, and he had cast a thrall over the massive oxen
leading the human train, luring them away from the charge
that certainly would have opened the escape route across
the bridge. Horgan even remembered the looks of awe upon
the faces of his comrades as they witnessed the "miracle."
Yet, in his own mind, he recalled the stark terror that
had seized him like the coils of a constricting serpent,
threatening to crush his chest and squeeze his bowels into
water. All he could think of was escape, but shock
prevented his legs from responding even to this, the most
basic of emotions. Even as his comrades streamed away
from him, panicked by the oncoming beasts, Horgan
stumbled numbly until he stood, alone, before the
lumbering charge
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