"The first shot is free." Erik Ironspirit said, the guardsman raised his bow, and drew the arrow back to his cheek, his eye sighted along the shaft. The arrow sang through the air and struck true, piercing the breastplate, and punching deep into Eriks chest.
"You know," Erik said, snapping off the shaft of the arrow with one hand, "I thought that with one free shot you would have made it count." The guard staggered back in disbelief, the arrow had struck him through the chest, very likely piercing the heart of his foe. The warrior lunged forward, the footmans saber cutting a bright arc through the air. The Guard desperately tried to evade as he notched another arrow, but he failed in both tasks.
The man fell, his chest torn open by the curved blade, his eyes wide with the shock of a man deeply wounded, and not completely comprehending. He twitched, but Erik was not done. He screamed and brough the saber down again, and again. The blade was wet with gore, and flecks of blood peppered his face like a sea squall. He screamed until he was hoarse, the blade rising and falling with maniac frequency.
He stopped, no sweat beaded on his brow, no pulse raced in his ears, no sweet thrill of victory, or even the elation of pure savagry moved him. He dropped the saber on the ground, hands clenching and unclenching as he looked around. There had been a dozen men at the post, and now he was alone, each had foudn death in the same manner, bu his hands.
It was still empty. He heard the soft crunch of footsteps in the leaves, someone was coming...