Forest Kingdom Trilogy 2 - Blood and Honor

There was no sign of his attacker. 'Well done, Prince Viktor,' he called loudly, 'but we won't need any more of your fire magic. My friends and I will take care of this trash.'
    He laughed unpleasantly, and Jordan shivered. There was something harsh and awful in that laugh, an open delight in murder and human butchery. Sir Gawaine hefted his great axe once, and started forward.
    The mercenaries snapped out of their daze, and two of them went to meet him. The others moved cautiously forward, giving the flames in the middle of the path plenty of room as they passed. Roderik drew his sword and dismounted, all in a single supple movement, and Argent swung quickly down to join him. They moved confidently forward to meet the mercenaries. The fighting had already begun by the time Jordan got down from his horse.
    Gawaine stood his ground, grinning nastily, as the two mercenaries closed in on him. They had to wade through the tall heather to reach him, and he didn't miss the way it slowed them down. He chose his moment carefully, and then launched himself forward, his axe a silver blur in the moonlight as it swept out to punch deep into the ribs of the first mercenary. The
    heavy steel blade buried itself in his side with a harsh, chunking sound, and the impact threw the mercenary to the ground. Sir Gawaine yanked the axe free, and blood and splintered bone flew on the air. The sword of the second mercenary swept out in a long arc, reaching for Gawaine's throat. The knight ducked under the blow at the last moment, and his axe whistled through the air towards his attacker's legs. The mercenary jumped backwards, and the axe just missed. Gawaine recovered his balance and moved forward, swinging his axe lazily before him. The mercenary backed away, peering warily at him over his shield. Gawaine feinted to the left and then threw himself forward as the mercenary hesitated, undecided. The axe rose and fell, sweeping past the shield to smash through the mercenary's collarbone and bury itself in his chest. The two men fell to the ground in a heap, but only Gawaine got to his feet again. Blood soaked his chain-mail, none of it his.
    There was a weak thrashing sound behind him, and Gawaine spun round as the first mercenary lurched to his feet, favouring his smashed ribs but still clinging to his sword. Blood ran from his mouth and nose, and he showed his teeth in a bloody grin. Gawaine watched him warily. When a man knows he's dying, he becomes a much more dangerous opponent. He'll try anything, take any risk. He knows he's got nothing to lose. The mercenary rushed forward, and his sword cut viciously at Gawaine's belly. The knight met the blow with the flat of his axe, and the shock ripped the sword from the mercenary's weakened grasp. He watched his sword fly through the air, and Gawaine's axe leapt up to sink into his throat. He fell limply to the ground, and lay still. Gawaine pulled his axe free with a sickening tearing sound.
    Count Roderik cut down the first mercenary to reach him with practised ease, his sword a shining blur in the uneven light. He turned quickly to meet the second mercenary, his face a cold and calculating mask.
    He moved confidently forward, and steel clashed on steel as the mercenary parried his attack without flinching. The mercenary took most of the blows on his blank shield, content to let Roderik tire himself, and then launched
    his own attack. The two men stamped back and forth on the narrow trail, sparks flying in the gloom when their swords met.
    Roderik gritted his teeth against a growing ache in his sword arm. It had been too many years since he'd used a sword for anything but sport or exercise. That was the trouble with having a good reputation as a swordsman; after a while it became practically impossible to find anyone foolish enough to duel with you, even just to first blood. Roderik pressed his opponent hard, and the mercenary backed cautiously away, leaving no opening. Roderik scowled. It was taking too long. Old instincts and skills were slowly
    returning to him, but already his breath was coming fast and hurried, while the mercenary wasn't even breathing hard. Roderik felt an almost forgotten chill run through him as he realised the man before him might just be a better swordsman than him.
    The sixth and last mercenary slipped past the struggling figures and made for his main target, the Prince.
    The merchant could wait; he wasn't going to be a problem. Prince Viktor, on the other hand, was