Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [2]
A second goblin raced over to join in the fray, eager to strike a blow, looking for a clear shot at Corin… Corin made sure that shot never came, twisting and turning so that the first goblin's body was always between himself and this new opponent. The second goblin danced around the pair as they wrestled in the mud, slipping and sliding as he waited for an opening. Finally he gave up and began hacking indiscriminately at the tangled pair.
The first goblin screamed as his companion's blade bit deep into his back, severing the spinal cord. In one smooth motion Corin, still lying beneath the twitching body of his opponent, wrenched the short sword free from the now paralyzed hand of his first attacker and used it to slash at the unprotected leg of the second goblin hovering over them. The sword bit deep into the flesh, slicing through the tendon. With a howl the goblin collapsed on the ground, bringing his exposed throat within range of Corin's next blow. Corin did not miss.
He then rolled the paralyzed first goblin off him and dispatched his now helpless enemy with a single blow. He scrambled to his feet and pulled out his own long sword, quickly surveying the battle scene. Several figures were moving cautiously through the fallen bodies of the horses and soldiers. Ores, likely, looking to finish off the wounded and steal some small trinket from the dead that they could keep hidden from the rest of the gang. Several more robbers had surrounded the carriage, preventing any chance of escape for the driver, Fhazail and the nobleman's young son.
Corin's brothers-in-arms, the four that were still standing, were on the defensive. They stood on the far side of the road, back to back in a small circle, swords weaving tight patterns in the air as they held their enemies momentarily at bay. Through the gloom of the storm Corin could make out several fallen bandits at the feet of his friends, and he recognized the distinctive armor of Igland among the four still standing. His companions faced overwhelming odds, completely surrounded by at least a dozen armed opponents who were only waiting for the reinforcements to finish their looting of Corin's fallen comrades before they moved in.
Corin sprinted across the road, his feet skidding across the wet earth, brandishing his blade above his head and screaming his battle lust to the broiling thunderclouds overhead. Several of the bandits spun to meet Corin's charge, turning their backs on the four soldiers in the middle of the pack. The soldiers acted instinctively, moving as one-the result of years of training and drills- attacking the suddenly exposed backs of their opponents.
Before the rest of the bandits could even react, four of their number lay dead or dying, and the soldiers had broken free of the confining circle. A second later Corin joined the battle, and the bandits found themselves being pressed on two fronts. With a single command from Igland the White Shields took the offensive.
Corin waded through the rabble of poorly equipped bandits, easily parrying the unskilled slashes and swipes of their rusty swords and returning them with lethally effective cuts and thrusts of his own finely wrought weapon. He carved a swath through his opponents, mowing them down like so much grain at the harvest, then turned for another pass.
In his peripheral vision he noticed his companions wreaking similar havoc on their incompetent foes. The bandits-disorganized, untrained cowards at heart- scattered beneath the fury of the White Shields' wrath. Corin took a step after them, but pulled up short when he heard Igland's voice shouting above the storm.
"Let them go, Corin! We have to protect the boy."
Corin turned his