Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [5]
Yet even as he was being all but overrun by his opponent, Corin knew he had the advantage. He continued to retreat, splashing through puddles and drawing the orog ever closer to the main battle, and farther and farther away from the prisoners and the coach he intended to use as an escape. Soon, Corin knew his friends would finish off the bandits and come to join him, overwhelming the orog with their coordinated efforts.
Suddenly the orog paused, an uncertain look on its repulsive, rain drenched face. It stared for a brief second at the figures engaged in combat over Corin's shoulder, watching as the last two bandits fell beneath the blades of three White Shields acting in concert. Then it cast a quick glance back at the carriage, seeming to realize the predicament it was in. Corin took the opportunity to lunge forward with his sword. At the last second the orog reacted to the thrust, turning to the side to avoid the blade and driving a burly shoulder into Corin's chest, sending him stumbling to the ground. But rather than finish Corin off and then face the three remaining soldiers, the orog turned and began a loping run back to the coach.
Corin followed, and heard the battle cries of his companions behind him as they rushed to catch up. The orog*s size was a disadvantage now, its great boots sank into the mud with every step, slowing it down. Corin would catch up before they reached the coach. Then all he had to do was slow the monster down long enough for the others to join in.
Ten feet from the coach the creature turned to face him. Again it swung its massive weapon, this time in a sweeping overhand stroke. Corin dropped to one knee to absorb the force of the impact. He held his own blade out in front of him, parallel to the ground, braced to catch the blow. The orog"s fierce weapon met with Corin's own, and its faint glow erupted in a blinding flash of magic. The weapon shattered Corin's own blade, its momentum barely even slowed as it continued on its arc, slicing through Corin's outstretched arm. The blade bit clean through Corin's sword arm just below the elbow, effortlessly carving armor, skin, sinew, and bone.
The force of the blow threw Corin onto his back, his severed hand dropped twitching to the ground beside him. The pain shooting up from the bloody stump that was once his hand nearly blinded Corin, but his warrior training forced his body to react instinctively. His legs pushed out hard against the ground, somersaulting him backward away from the killing blow.
The orog took a quick swipe at Corin as he rolled out of range, but the sight of the other White Shields quickly closing ground kept it from pursuing its crippled foe. Instead, it turned and took three huge strides, then leaped up into the driver's seat of the coach. Corin struggled to his knees, covered in slime and mud, still clutching his bloody stump and trying to staunch the flow of blood.
The orog stared down at him for a brief second, then in a thick growl shouted out above the fury of the storm, "When they ask who took your hand, human, tell them it was Graal!"
With that he whipped the horses once and the carriage lurched forward, rumbling off to disappear into the storm.
Two years later, Corin woke with a start, tipping his mug and spilling ale onto the tavern floor. The scream of rage and despair died in his throat as the nightmare faded away to be replaced by the dank surroundings of the Weeping Griffin, possibly the worst tavern in the whole of the Dragon Coast.
Instantly he knew where he was. He spent most afternoons there, huddled by himself at a table in the corner drinking until he passed out.