Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [4]
Two other bandits were down, ores, both of them dispatched by Igland. The other soldiers were holding their own, and Corin could see it was only a matter of time before the victory was theirs. Before Corin could re-join the melee he noticed Igland on the far side of the battlefield gesturing frantically at the carriage.
A single ore had emerged from the coach-the figure Corin had noticed through the window. It was hitching the horses back up and getting ready to ride off with Fhazail and the boy while the others kept the White Shields occupied.
Corin and Igland raced toward the lone figure. Igland was closer, he reached the wagon just as the ore finished hitching the horses up. The ore turned to face him, drawing its sword. The blade glowed faintly in the darkness.
Corin was on the far side of the battle, he had to weave his way through the soldiers and bandits still locked in combat to reach his goal, floundering through the mud. He ducked to avoid a wild blow by one of the bandits as he raced by, but lost his balance and landed unceremoniously on his backside. Luckily his momentum carried him past the fray, sliding through the ooze like he used to do as a child after the spring rains turned the untilled fields into one giant mud pit.
He scrambled back to his feet and saw Igland writhing on the ground, his hands clutching at a stump that used to be his left leg. The ore towered over the fallen leader of the White Shields, relishing its opponent's suffering for a brief instant before raising its glowing blade above its head. No!" Corin screamed, too far to help but close enough to hear the sound of metal hacking through helmet and bone as the ore brought the killing blow down on Igland's skull.
The ore looked up from its victim to face its new opponent. Its shoulders were broad and powerful, its bare arms knotted by muscle and sinew. Its massive chest was covered with black chain armor, its legs were covered to the knee by a kilt of black iron links, and below the knee by heavy black boots. Its head was covered by a black iron skullcap, and its eyes glowed with hate and evil from below the helm. Corin was close enough now to pierce the gloom and stare directly into the hate filled gaze. Up into the hate filled gaze. The ore towered over Corin, by far the biggest he had ever seen.
"Orog," Corin whispered to himself.
A genetically superior race of ore, some said. A hideous cross breed of ore and ogre, others insisted. Corin had heard of these creatures, but had never faced one before. It brought its huge sword up with both hands-the blade was a foot longer than Corin's own and at least twice as thick-and stood poised in this position, boots sinking ever so slightly into the rain-softened ground.
Corin approached cautiously, sizing up his opponent. The stance was unorthodox, yet Corin sensed it was not a sign of inexperience. His opponent stood motionless as Corin moved in, its sword dripping with blood and rain, glowing faintly with its own eerie light. Corin didn't need to see the etchings on the blade to know it was a weapon of evil magic.
Corin lunged forward, a quick feint, then drew back. The orog brought the blade straight down, as if chopping wood. Corin easily avoided the blow, but before he could regain his balance on the slick earth and counter, the orog was already in the process of delivering another stroke. Corin gave ground and parried with his own blade. The heavy sword struck his own, sending shock waves of vibration through Corin's sword arm. A heavy boot caught