Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [68]
Without breaking stride Corin dropped into a forward roll beneath the axe's path. The dwarf did a half turn to avoid getting bowled over by Corin's tumbling form, but he couldn't avoid the warrior's blade. As Corin somersaulted past he thrust his sword up under the dwarf's armpit, striking at the small space left vulnerable on even the best suits of armor. The blade easily bit through the inadequate mesh protecting the underside of the joint, running the enemy through. Corin's momentum brought him to his feet and he continued his sprint, scooping up the sword of a dead cultist to replace the one he had left buried to the hilt in the still twitching dwarf.
He was clear of the battle. Nothing stood between him and his prey. It was then that Fhazail saw him, bearing down with a clear path before him. Corin saw recognition in the steward's eyes, recognition and terror. Fhazail turned and took a few quick steps toward the woods, then pulled up short. Instinctively, Corin did the same.
It appeared as if an enormous living shadow had stepped forth from the forest, darkness incarnate. A creature clad all in black armor-from its heavy boots to its iron skullcap-grabbed Fhazail with one paw and yanked him into the cover of the forest behind it. The beast then raised its weapon to face Corin, the pulsating blade of the two-handed sword devouring all light that struck its blade. Graal.
Faced with the creature that had taken his hand, Corin felt hatred-but not the all consuming abhorrence he felt for a cowardly traitor like Fhazail. Here was an enemy, to be sure, but one Corin could understand, one who lived by the blade. Graal had killed Igland and maimed Corin, but it was done during battle, without duplicity or pretense. Graal had only done what any warrior would have done in the same position. What Corin himself would have done. The sight of Graal filled Corin with a lust for vengeance at the memory of their last battle, but he also felt a twinge of grudging respect. There was something else. A feeling Corin was unfamiliar with. As Graal began to slowly approach, Corin felt his knees buckle slightly. His palm felt clammy, he was unsure of his grasp on his weapon. The tip of his sword wavered, mimicking the slight trembling of Corin's own arm.
"You fear me, little man," the orog snarled. "I can smell it."
It was true, there was no sense wasting words denying it. Corin was afraid, and he hesitated.
Graal attacked with ruthless simplicity, his blade cleaving the air in an overhand chop. Corin made no attempt to block the sweeping blow, knowing it would only shatter his own weapon. Instead, he spun to the side. The great sword hewed the ground, leaving a deep gash in the earth. As his opponent's weapon sliced through the air mere inches from his face, Corin felt the dark hunger of the evil blade pulling at his very soul.
Before Corin could counter, Graal hacked at him again, forcing him to parry with his sword and deflect the attack to the side. The clash of swords rocked Corin back and sent numbing vibrations up his arm, nearly knocking his own sword from his hand.
His opponent fought seemingly without strategy or technique, but against this monster all Corin's warrior training, all his skill with a blade, were for naught. Graal struck with a relentless elemental fury, his strength and speed more than compensating for brutishly simple form. Corin was driven back in a stumbling retreat.
Spinning, diving, and rolling,– Corin was able to stay mere inches ahead of his opponent's strikes. Corin was breathing heavily, he could feel himself wilting beneath the unremitting offensive. He was thankful again that he wore no armor. Encumbered by a metal suit, Corin would have been unable to evade the Grog's blows, and he had little doubt that his enemy's dark blade would simply cleave through even the thickest plate. With each jump back, with every duck