John Jacob and the others burst out of the trees, their yells turning Blackstone’s attackers away from their target. As Blackstone’s men fought the routiers Blackstone’s sixth sense made him drop down. A blade whispered through the air where, a heartbeat before, his head had been. The seventh man struck from the blind side. Out of sight of the others, on the far edge of the perimeter. Blackstone pivoted, arcing Wolf Sword’s blade to take away the man’s legs, but he danced away, an experienced fighter who lunged down, his sword tip biting dirt seconds too late. Blackstone rolled, kicked out his legs and caught the man, who stumbled, buying Blackstone time to get to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of his men go down, bettered by de Hayle’s mercenary. John Jacob was too late to save him but thrust his blade beneath the man’s armpit. Two of the routiers ran, leaving John Jacob and his remaining fighter to battle against the survivor’s stubborn resistance. There was chaos as the two riders crashed their mounts through the camp. Low branches snapped back. Blackstone’s man was barged aside and the skinners broke free.

It all flashed past as Blackstone felt his opponent’s strength. The fury of his attack meant Blackstone had little choice other than to parry. He sidestepped but the flurry of blows was unabated. The man’s strength matched Blackstone’s; his skill did not. Blackstone eased his grip, letting the man’s blade feel the give. Seducing him. Feeding his confidence. It was a lesson Blackstone had learnt when he’d fought a Teutonic knight. The mercenary stepped in for the killing blow but Blackstone had feinted. Wolf Sword dropped low as the man’s weight forced down the blade. Blackstone was already turning his shoulder. The archer’s knife struck beneath the man’s chin with such force it was wrenched from Blackstone’s grip when the routier fell.