Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [99]
Azlar recognized the creature that had taken his hand at the ambush in the clearing-the beast known as Graal. Seeing the beast in battle, the cult wizard's thoughts were not those of revenge. The monster was magnificent in his ferocity.
Friend and foe alike fell before Graal's assault, feeding the creature's ravaging blade, fuelling his killing lust. Blood spurted up from the severed limbs and gushing wounds of those around the orog as bodies fell, adding to the ever growing pile of grisly corpses at Graal's feet. Gore covered the monster from head to toe, turning his black armor crimson. The thing licked a splatter of warm blood from his chin, his long, bestial tongue irmning languidly over his tusks.
Yet even amidst Graal's unbridled orgy of death, Azlar noticed that the creature was careful not to harm the old wizard at his feet. If the old mage died, the medusa would break free and turn her devastating powers on everyone within the chamber. The beast understood the potential consequences. He was intelligent, and he could be a useful ally-if brought under proper control.
Azlar motioned for the troops he had initially held back in reserve to enter the battle. As they rushed by him, the cult mage began an incantation-a spell to dominate the orog, to cage his wild fury and bring him under Azlar's control.
Unseen claws extended out from Azlar's mind, grasped at the Grog's essence, trying to steal his identity, his sense of self, his very will to act. The beast shook his great head, tusks snapping at the invisible enemy trying to get inside his mind. The orog threw his head back and bellowed his howling defiance to the stony roof, thrusting the invader out.
Azlar's eyes widened as he realized the armored monster had resisted his spell. Graal's yellow eyes focused on him and a low growl escaped his throat. Azlar's knees momentarily buckled. The monster began a march toward him. All thoughts of taking the orog alive vanished from Azlar's head.
With a single barked command Azlar's personal bodyguard, a half dozen of the cult's best warriors arrayed in a protective circle around the young mage, moved for^ ward to destroy the threat.
They surrounded their opponent, striking from all sides. The beast took clumsy swings at them, first one opponent, then another, spinning and twisting in a vain attempt to guard against all six of the attackers at once. The guards easily avoided the hurried blows, dancing out of range then slipping back in as the creature turned toward another foe and left himself vulnerable. Little by little, the six men surrounding the orog picked away, relentless as gnats. The orog's arms and legs began to bleed from countless cuts and wounds, and his thick, fur became matted with the sticky liquid.
With a desperate, animal fury the beast swung wildly, throwing himself off balance. Much to Azlar's relief, Graal tripped over his own feet and collapsed.
Instantly, the gnats were on their fallen foe. Sheer numbers overwhelmed the creature, beating him down with a barrage of blows to the body and head. Graal's armor reverberated with the song of battle as the weapons rained down. Blades rang off his mail shirt, and edged weapons meant to cleave his skull clanged off his iron helm.
To Azlar's amazement, the creature shrugged off the blows and rose to his knees. From the half-prone stance the orog slashed at the forest of legs around him with short, powerful strokes, slicing sinew, muscle, cartilage, and bone, leaving one of Azlar's men with nothing but a stump below mid-thigh.
The Grog's dark sword glowed with a black light, and Azlar heard the unmistakable hum of necromancy. The young wizard felt the power of the black sword's magic as the blade in Graal's talons drank from the stolen life-force of the dying cultists.
Before Azlar's horrified eyes the most serious of his enemy's wounds closed over, healing instantly. Bolstered by the influx of new life, the orog heaved himself