Forest Kingdom Trilogy 2 - Blood and Honor

looking more dangerous by the minute. He had to be taken care of quickly, before he could call up any more magical fire. Besides, there was a bonus for the man who killed the Prince. The mercenary grinned. For a hundred ducat bonus he'd wipe out a whole royal family. And then he pulled up short, startled, as Robert Argent blocked his way with a drawn sword. The mercenary looked at him, and his grin widened. One short, tubby merchant with a brand new sword shouldn't be much of a problem. The mercenary glanced briefly at Prince Viktor, just in case he was about to launch any more magic, but he was apparently busy fumbling with his sleeves and muttering to himself. Argent lashed out clumsily with his sword, and the mercenary parried it easily. He quickly took over the attack, and forced Argent back step by step, the merchant defending himself more by strength and determination than skill. In a matter of seconds the mercenary knocked Argent's sword out of his hand, and drew back his blade for the killing thrust.
    'Hold, assassin!' roared Jordan, in his most commanding voice. He gestured mystic ally, and bluewhite flames flared up
    about his hands. The mercenary took one look, and started backing quickly away. Jordan adopted his most impressive High Warlock stance. The trick was to keep the audience looking at you, rather than at your hands. That way they wouldn't notice how quickly the flames started to die down. He ran his hands through a quick series of mystical gestures, using the movements to hide his palming of another flare pellet from his sleeve, and threw the pellet at the mercenary. It cracked open as it hit his chest, and the liquid in the pellet burst into flames. The fire took a savage hold on the mercenary's clothes, and leapt up around his face. He screamed shrilly, and dropped his sword to beat at the flames with his hands. Jordan stepped forward, and ran the man through with his sword. The mercenary fell to the ground, and lay still.
    The flames burned fiercely on the unmoving body.
    Jordan looked quickly about him. The flames licking around his hands were already beginning to gutter.
    Argent gave him a quick nod to show he was all right. Gawaine had just finished off his last opponent, but Roderik was being slowly beaten back by his. Jordan blew out the flames on his hands, and moved stealthily in behind the mercenary. It only took a moment to remove his cloak and sweep it over the mercenary's head, blinding him. He grabbed frantically at the heavy material, and Roderik ran him through. Jordan pulled his cloak away as the mercenary collapsed, and put it on again. Roderik looked at the dead man, and then at Jordan, and raised an eyebrow.
    'Don't believe in fighting fair, do you?'
    'I believe in winning,' said Jordan, settling his cloak comfortably about him.
    'A very sensible attitude,' said Sir Gawaine, stepping over a dead body as he came forward to join them.
    He looked sternly at Argent, who was still groping in the shadows at the side of the trail, trying to find the sword he'd dropped. 'If you're going to stay with us, Argent, I'd better teach you how to fight. Or at least how,to hang on to your sword.'
    'If you were doing your job properly, I wouldn't need to know how,' said Argent, finally straightening up with his sword in his hand. 'You're supposed to be our bodyguard, remember?'
    'We all fight when we have to,' said Roderik quickly. 'Now may I suggest we all get the hell out of here?
    Those mercenaries knew where to find us; for all we know there could be more of them on their way right now. Dammit, Gawaine, I would have sworn nobody knew we were coming here.' He frowned unhappily at the mercenary he'd just killed. 'It's a pity we couldn't take one of them alive to answer questions.'
    'Sorry,' said Gawaine. 'I'll try to remember next time.'
    He strode away to round up the scattered horses. Jordan noticed with something like pride that of all the party's mounts, only Smokey had stayed put. In fact, when he thought about it, Jordan was actually quite proud of himself, too. He'd helped to take on six fully armed mercenaries, beaten two himself, and come out of it without a scratch. Not bad going . . . The rising wind brought him the smell of burnt pork from the mercenary he'd killed, and the reality of the situation suddenly caught up with him. He felt faintly sick, and his hands began to shake. He'd only been on this job a few hours, and already people were trying to kill him. Next time, there