Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [3]
A half-dozen men stood near the coach, prepared for battle. From the way they held their weapons Corin could tell these were not the untrained fodder he had just dispatched with such ease, but experienced mercenaries. A second later the men were joined by four figures slinking in from the darkness-the ores had finished their looting, and were now ready to fight.
"Ten against five," Igland muttered. "I like our chances."
There was no mad rush forward this time. Both parties knew a foolish mistake would mean certain death. The White Shields advanced slowly in a loose formation, the bandits spreading out as they approached. Igland barked a command, and Corin and one of the other soldiers slid back a step to guard against anyone trying to flank them.
For a brief second they faced each other-highway robbers and hired guards, buffeted by the howling wind and driving rain of the raging tempest.
From the carriage Fhazail's voice called out in a blubbery whine, "The leader tells me that if you throw down your weapons they'll let us all live. All they want is to ransom the boy. They don't want to hurt anyone."
Igland gave a contemptuous laugh. "Even you aren't gullible enough to believe that, are you Fhazail? The only one they care about is the boy. The rest of us are nothing but dragon meat to them. This ends in one of two ways, with their deaths or ours."
There was nothing more to say, the battle began. Igland's men pressed forward, maintaining their loose formation. The bandits held their ground, but Corin could already tell they weren't used to fighting as a unit. Though outnumbering their foes, the bandits weren't able to coordinate their efforts. They took turns engaging the soldiers, attacking, thrusting and parrying before falling back to allow another man to move in for a pass.
The strange, hypnotic rhythm of combat began to take hold of the bandits: advance, attack, parry, retreat, switch. They became predictable; After repelling only a few offensives Corin already knew all the moves of the two men facing him, knew how to counter their every blow. He picked up the rhythms of one of his foes- advance, attack, parry-but when the bandit tried to disengage, Corin was ready. Leaping forward he brought his sword in low and quick, forcing his opponent to take a hasty step back, throwing him off balance. Before he could recover Corin reversed the path of his sword with a flick of his wrist and a turn of his body and brought the blade in high. The bandit had to twist and lean back to avoid the blow causing him to stumble awkwardly on the slippery ground. Using both hands Corin slashed down in a diagonal arc. The bandit parried the blow, but the force nearly knocked the sword from his hand and deflected the bandit's own blade downward, leaving his chest exposed. Corin thrust forward, felt the point of his weapon penetrate the mail shirt, pierce the breastbone, and run deep into the chest cavity of his opponent. The entire sequence had taken less than a second.
Corin wrenched his sword free from his dying enemy to catch the wild stroke of his second foe. He had left himself vulnerable in finishing off the first bandit, but his remaining opponent had been too slow to capitalize on it-just as Corin knew he would. Corin kicked out with his boot, landing a sharp blow to the bandit's knee. The leg crumpled for a brief second, and as the bandit's weight slumped forward Corin brought the hilt of his sword crashing into the man's jaw, sending him reeling back, his arms pinwheeling to keep his balance as his weapon slipped from his grasp. Corin bounded after his foe. Somehow he managed to