Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [73]
"Get to the woods!" Corin yelled to her, eyes still pressed firmly shut. "Get away as far and as fast as you can! Don't look back!"
"You too!" Lhasha hollered back. "Get out of here! Fll meet you back at the Weeping Griffin."
Corin took a hesitant step over the uneven ground, trying to gauge his sense of direction without opening his eyes, and then a stampede of unseen assailants bowled him over. From the rank smell and high pitched yelping,
Corin knew they were kobolds. They tumbled to the ground with him, but instead of hacking him to pieces, Corin heard them scramble to their feet and continue their mad rush to escape the battlefield.
Corin lay still. The kobolds had just run him down, their pursuers couldn't be far behind. The heavy clumping of the cultists' mailed boots thundered around his head and prone body, but he didn't try to roll out of the way, he didn't even flinch. He gave no hint at all that he was still conscious or alive, nothing to attract the attention of a passing soldier.
The heavy footsteps were past him. He could hear them, galloping off after the fleeing kobolds. The battle swept over him as he lay on the ground. He heard the clash of metal, the splinter of bone, the grunts of soldiers wielding their weapons, and the wails of the injured and dying. For a few brief seconds he was in the eye of the storm, and then the melee moved on as the cultists pressed their enemies ever farther back.
Corin wondered about Lhasha, but he couldn't risk attracting attention to himself by calling out. He didn't dare open his eyes to search for her. All he could do was pray she would make it back to the Weeping Griffin. Keeping his eyes pressed tight, he began to crawl along the ground, heading in a direction he hoped led to the safety of the forest.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Graal almost let the one-armed man have Fhazail. It would have been a quick end to the orog's problems, and a perfect end to the evening. The cultists were hopelessly outnumbered, Graal's troops would soon overwhelm them and take the package for their master. With the package all but delivered into Xiliath's hands, the steward's usefulness was over. The one-armed man could have him.
Xiliath might not approve. The orog's master was ruthless and cruel, but unlike Graal he was also careful, he planned ahead. The orog had no idea what strategies Xiliath might use to consolidate his power in Elversult's underworld. His master might still have need of Fhazail. If he learned the orog had done nothing to help…
So Graal had intervened, stepping forth from the darkness to defend the despicable coward from the one-armed soldier's sword. He saw a flicker of recognition in his enemies eyes, and Graal's dark blade pulsed hungrily in his hands. It had tasted this man's flesh before.
His mind flashed back, through hundreds of men, women, and children he had slain and maimed over the years. Precious few of his opponents had survived long enough to leave an impression on the Grog's mind, but this one he knew. A White Shield.
The memory of their storm-tossed battle on the Trader Road fuelled Graal's bloodlust, and his semi-sentient blade throbbed with arcane power, responding with a bloodlust of its own. The White Shield trembled before the orog"s wrath.
"You fear me little man," Graal snarled, "I can smell it."
The fear made the man cautious, reluctant to attack. Graal had no such qualms. He struck with wild, untamed ferocity, overwhelming his tiny one-armed opponent.
Then the cripple's bitch stabbed him in the back. He swatted her away, but the moment was lost. The White Shield seized the advantage and drove him back-a worthy opponent.
Worthy, but still inferior. Graal slowed the man's assault. He used his massive bulk to take away his oppo-. nent's momentum and regain the advantage, but not before the female was up again. Graal couldn't advance, he couldn't simply bury his enemy beneath a flurry of psychotic blows, lest he expose himself to another bite from the female's blade.