“Horn of Hades, look at this big bastard in the front row!”

“He’s too big. I bet you he fights like Dionysus after too much wine!”

Praxis of Argos couldn’t help but smirk at the two Cynurian warriors in front of him, especially as they appraised his fighting skills. Each of them held up their spears, pointing at him as if to gesture that he would soon become intimately familiar with their potency.

After all, their war party was impressive by sight alone. Cynuria had at least five hundred warriors in front of them—the pride of their land. It was a region that neighbored the city of Argos, and it had always been a rustic and barbarous one, prone to frequent raids. It was that reason that found the two cities’ warriors on the field of battle that afternoon, squared off and ready to fight.

Just a short distance away, Praxis’ friend, Theron, had heard the boasts and turned to laugh.

“They think you can’t fight, Praxis,” said Theron, shaking his head. “I think they’re in need of a demonstration!”

Praxis said nothing as he stared down the opposing warriors. The only thing he did was tighten the grip on the spear in his right hand.

One of the Cynurians hadn’t had enough yet. He threw his head back and laughed upon hearing Theron’s statement.

“A demonstration? The only demonstration I’ll be giving is introducing my cock to your mother’s ass. She had a face like Medusa but it would be worth it to watch her squirm!”

At that point, Praxis decided to respond. Taunting him was one thing but bringing his mother into the conversation was something else entirely. Operating solely on instinct, he yanked his right arm back and then sent it flying forward, releasing his spear at the last second.

The pointed tip flew through the air, nearly whistling as it sped toward its target.

It landed with an audible howl as the taunting Cynurian warrior cried out in pain. The spear had penetrated his gut and emerged out the back, killing him within seconds.

The warriors on either side stopped their jeering and watched as the Cynurian hit the ground, his mouth bubbling with blood while his legs twitched.

Praxis grinned and swapped his second spear into his throwing hand. “Does anyone else have a kind word to say about my mother?”

Just like that, the mood changed between the two small armies. The Cynurian force in front of them, content to taunt them for the last hour in the hopes that the Argive army would retreat back to their city, was now spoiling for blood after watching the fall of one of their own.

This was always the part of the battle that Praxis liked the most. He hated all the preliminary nonsense that was required before a fight started. He just wanted to destroy his enemies, building upon the reputation that he’d already established in his home city of Argos.

The reputation of being the best warrior in his city.

It was a fame that he would defend today even if others were determined to prevent this fight.

Others such as Xanthos, the son of King Damian of Argos.

Xanthos came rushing along the line, looking panicked at the thought of the battle kicking off in earnest. His timidness only amused Praxis.

“The next man that strikes out before I give the order will incur the wrath of Hades himself,” yelled Xanthos, looking solely at Praxis. He stopped within a foot of Praxis, glaring at him with cruel eyes. “My father doesn’t wish for a fight today. You know this, damn you!”

Xanthos never got to say another word before a decent-sized rock hit him alongside the helmet. More rocks came as the barbarous Cynurians began to launch them at the Argive ranks, forcing all of them to take shelter behind their shields.

Praxis shook his head at having to hide behind his shield. He stared back at Xanthos. “And yet, a battle has found us anyway, despite the best intentions of our king.”

Xanthos grabbed onto Praxis’ armor in a menacing manner. “If you don’t follow my orders, I’ll have you killed.”

Praxis knew it was an empty threat. Xanthos didn’t have that kind of power.

“Death finds all of us sooner or later,” replied Praxis lightheartedly. “Some of us are more ready than others to accept our fate.”

Whatever brawl was brewing between the two men would have to wait. The Cynurians were now launching into their pre-fight chant—a garbled cry that called upon blessings from the gods for the blood they were about to shed.

“You two might want to stop your flirting and pay attention,” called out Theron, unleashing his sword. “They will be charging soon!”

“Horn of Hades!” swore Xanthos as he turned around and resumed his place in line. He shot one more glare at Praxis. “My father will hear about this, Praxis. You can count on that!”

The threat didn’t bother Praxis. King Damian was his stepfather, and he was used to being on his bad side. Why would today be any different? Besides, if things got bad enough, he would just have his mother intercede on his behalf like she had before.

One way or another Praxis would find a way to calm Damian’s ire.

“Here they come!” yelled the man fighting right next to Praxis while nudging him with his shield. “Get ready to fight them, foreigner!”

Praxis didn’t respond to the charge of being a foreigner. Instead, he focused on the Cynurian that was now charging him. The man was young, hardly more than a boy with a scraggly beard and a puny body. His rage caused him to move forward though, even if his technique was lacking. Praxis took the blow of his charge on his shield before stepping forward, putting his entire weight into a counterthrust which knocked the young man back. His eyes showed the surprise of the sudden charge, but nothing was more surprising than the way Praxis drove his sword right into his belly.

The man’s mouth fell open and he looked down to see the new hole in his chest, now dripping with blood. Praxis withdrew his sword quickly, using his shield to push the now dead man down as he awaited his next opponent.

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!”