The next man arrived quickly--a silver-bearded veteran of many wars by the looks of him. He moved more gracefully than the young man, pushing back on Praxis and forcing him to actually defend. His biggest problem was speed. Age had slowed his movements enough to give Praxis a deadly advantage. It was on one such slow thrust that Praxis knocked away his sword, giving him the opening he needed.
The Cynurian warrior cried out in pain as the blade sunk into his shoulder. He dropped his own shield in the process--the mark of a dead man.
At that moment, Praxis operated purely on instinct. He saw the man next to him--the same that had called him a foreigner--about to be overwhelmed by a short but feisty Cynurian. Using the strength in his large body, Praxis hurled the dead man at the attacker, throwing him off balance and letting the Argive beside him land a killing blow.
"Thanks for the assistance, foreigner," said the Argive as he brandished his bloody sword. "You know that I had him though!"
Praxis chuckled. "Another two seconds and it would be your body in the ground, not his."
The Argive said nothing further, already engaging with a new man as the fighting became more brutal. Praxis found himself in the midst of several waves of attackers, all of them drawn to him and hoping to make his head a war trophy.
It would seem that his legend had even reached the wilds of Cynuria. No doubt they would love to display his head on a spear as they paraded back to their backwoods capital.
They would never get their wish. Praxis moved like a man possessed as he performed the dance of death. His sword was just as much an extension of him as his own arm, connected by the sinews of flesh. He mowed down the Cynurian warriors in front of him until he had trouble stepping over all the bodies of the fallen. In doing so, he found himself soon fighting side by side with his friend, Theron.
"You have an impressive number over there," said Theron, taking the time to gesture to all the dead men around Theron. "What's your count right now? Twenty? Thirty?"
"Nineteen," replied Praxis, slamming his shield against the chest of another fighter, taking the wind from his body. The second of surprise was all the opening he needed to land a killing blow, causing another Cynurian to fall to the ground.
Praxis shot a smirk at Theron. "Twenty."
Theron started to laugh. "Only twenty? You're losing your touch, my friend. The gods must have withdrawn their favor of you! Perhaps your time is numbered!"
Praxis laughed with him. "If that is the case, you better find someone else to watch your back. If I fall, you won't be far behind me!"
Theron shook his head warily as he blocked a new thrust from another Cynurian. "Maybe I'll have your stepbrother take your place. He seems to know how to fight!"
Both men glanced over to see that Xanthos wasn't even on his feet. He was on his back and using his shield to block a blow from a Cynurian with wild hair. The Cynurian looked to be gaining ground on him and it was only a matter of time before Xanthos was finished.
Praxis grunted. "My mother would be most upset if I let him die. Despite wanting to see the little bastard get his comeuppance, I should save him."
"And yet the whole city would probably thank you for letting him go," quipped Theron. "Anything to prevent him from becoming king after Damian dies."
Praxis eventually shook his head. "It would do no good for me to let him die, especially since Damian didn't want this fight to begin with. If I save his hide, I just might save mine in the process."
Theron tsk-tsked. "You spoilsport!"
Praxis didn't have time to laugh as he was already making his way to the fallen Xanthos. The Cynurian was just raising his sword arm back for the final strike when Praxis barreled into him with full force, throwing him to the ground in disarray.
Having removed the threat, Praxis offered his hand to Xanthos to lift him up. His stepbrother scowled at him.
"I could have killed him on my own," spat Xanthos, pushing to his feet on his own. "I almost had him!"
"He almost had you," replied Praxis. "An honest man would say thank you for saving your skin."
No such words would come out of Xanthos' mouth. Praxis knew the real reason why.
Xanthos was anything but an honest man.
Though Xanthos had been saved, a new threat soon emerged. Word had come down the line that the other side of the Argive flank was in trouble.
"The Cynurians are overwhelming us!" cried a warrior, his armor stained with blood. "Our flank is collapsing! Men are running back to Argos at full speed! We are about to lose this fight!"
His words sparked Xanthos into a panic. With eyes of fury, he latched onto Praxis' armor once more. "Don't just stand there! Do something about it! Save our flank before our army disintegrates!"