(Check which part for each character you are reading before you start)
Oliveiria tugged back the halter of the horse as they quickly headed for a assemblage of cut down trees. The thick forest blocking a way around them. Six horsemen approaching the dock of the horse. Each step chosen carefully over the logs. A few feet behind her a knight and his colt lost it’s footing and fell. Two horsemen reared up directly behind her on either sides and began slashing at the hind legs of the stallion. The knights and their horses merging into the shadows of the trees.
“Oliveiria!” One of the horsemen shouted, his raspy voice and strong accent echoing through the forest. “Do you know why we have come?”
She seized her small double bladed knife and swung back. Letting her head hit the tail of the horse and the momentum of her swing to lift her arm up and over her head. The knife impaled the throat of the horseman. It was as if he was wrenched from his saddle, now part of him and his soul, the man twisted and flew back like a dummy from the strike. His hand still held onto the bridle, he tugged it back, sending the horse’s crest back, leading the wither and back onto the logs. The man’s body teared through the thick grass and logs on the ground.
“You shall not stop me,” she roared. The four horsemen acquired several more feet and took the place of the dead horseman.
“We are here to seize you and annihilate you under the order of Prince Charles III,” the man proclaimed sharply.
"Your horse shall soon trip and fall," another knight said in a menacing voice. "And you shall die."
A clearing of ice quickly rushed towards them. Another horseman’s horse stumbled and collapsed. The logs still laid scattered about the forest. The knights were close behind and continued to slash the legs of the her stallion. The scattered logs eventually ended and the slick rime sat ahead. Finally the mighty horse, Grey II, lost his footing and tumbled across the open field. Crushing Oliveiria with every turn, against the cold rime, and finally they slid across the ice and thin layer of snow. She slid unconscious, motionless beside a one hundred foot fissure.
“She’s done,” one of the horsemen said, in a deep voice. “Let’s go back finally.”
“No,” the second one demanded. “We have to make sure.”
He dismounted his saddle and grasped his iron spear with both hands. The four horsemen sat silent for a moment, watching keenly and absorbed in the silence. Then the second one slowly approached the body of Oliveiria. He swung his spear behind his head and charged his throw. Then lobbed the iron spear over his opposite shoulder and brought down all the force gravity would let him into her ribs. A loud snap and a crunch as the spear sank into the ground past her flesh. A little fountain of blood surged out of the wound making a red puddle in the pearly white snow.
“This is for Prince Charles and the King,” he said.
Prince Ramsey directed his group of a dozen men across the Ice Plains. His dignity and honor hung by a string; being dragged by this mission waiting to be snapped.
“We’re almost there,” Prince Ramsey said. “Our quest for the Ice Crystal is almost complete.”
He turned around to face his men.
“Our honor is a substantial cow being dangled on a thread,” he continued. “And Prince Charles is going to cut it. Our redemption is an assassin about to cease him.”
“My lord, Prince Ramsey, behind you,” one knight pointed to a distant object far in front of them.
They trekked across to find a woman. She lay on the other side of a fissure, dead and frozen.
“Men, make yourself useful and help me get this woman across,” Prince Ramsey commanded.
The men got off their horses and nailed a short wooden bridge made of flat beech logs and rope over the crack as Prince Ramsey climbed down and walked leisurely on. In the corner of his eye he saw one of the horsemen gesture with two fingers pointing forwards and the other one bob his head then made the same signal. But he couldn’t do anything, the sudden signs, and motions, he stood there in the middle above the crevice bewildered and stunned.
This is for Prince Charles III and our King, the men thought together and with force of a behemoth the two in front of him lifted the nails out of the ice. Prince Ramsey drew his sword and dug it into the snow. He held onto the hilt at the edge of the crack. The men watched him hang to the thew of the icy snow. Ramsey rapidly hoisted his leg up and rolled up onto the hard snow. The knights withdrew their blades and pointed the tip at his nose.
“You’d point your sword at your king?” Prince Ramsey questioned.
“You’re no king,” they spat. The man knocked his small gold crown from his head to the crevice. “Prince Charles will be our king, our only.” Prince Ramsey stunned, leaned over to look down into the darkness as the last flash of the crown was drowned by the darkness. Prince Ramsey lifted himself to his feet and swung his sword clumsily towards the knight.
“Backup, you cad of a knight,” he scorned. “Knave… did Charles put you up to this?”
“Prince Charles and soon King of the North,” the knight hawked and choked out. “Excuse me, my grace.”
“When did such a knight as yourself get such manners?” Prince Ramsey taunted.
The knight swiftly jumped back and jabbed his sword into Ramsey’s shoulder where the armor didn’t protect, ignoring his question. He gritted his teeth and whirled his sword above his head and down onto the knight’s sword. His arm ached from the severe weight of the blade. He lifted the hilt and stabbed the knight’s knee. Ramsey turned to the other knave behind him and struck him down with the blade. The knight fell to his knees, clutching his arm and thrusted his sword at Ramsey.
“The unfortunate bloodshed of the king is what we’ll call it,” the man said behind him, gasping, with a slight mocking tone. “When we get back to the castle…” He paused as he choked up globs of blood. “Everyone will know of your untimely death.” Ramsey turned around, letting out a loud roar, and struck his sword clean through his neck. Sending the head down into the crack.
“And whoever gets back will be welcomed with a warm fire and a bowl of pottage,” he half whispered and spat; his eyes flaming. Visioning his consort sitting beside him, a pot of pottage, and crackling flames blazing in the fireplace. “Now, men, let’s begin.” He spat blood from his mouth, landing at the knight's feet.
The knight’s felt the fire soothing their toes and the warm pottage sit in their stomach’s as they took off their mail.