Temple Hill (2 page)

The strange, hypnotic rhythm of combat began to take hold of the bandits: advance, attack, parry, retreat, switch. They became predictable; After repelling only a few offensives Corin already knew all the moves of the two men facing him, knew how to counter their every blow. He picked up the rhythms of one of his foes— advance, attack, parry—but when the bandit tried to disengage, Corin was ready. Leaping forward he brought his sword in low and quick, forcing his opponent to take a hasty step back, throwing him off balance. Before he could recover Corin reversed the path of his sword with a flick of his wrist and a turn of his body and brought the blade in high. The bandit had to twist and lean back to avoid the blow causing him to stumble awkwardly on the slippery ground. Using both hands Corin slashed down in a diagonal arc. The bandit parried the blow, but the force nearly knocked the sword from his hand and deflected the bandit’s own blade downward, leaving his chest exposed. Corin thrust forward, felt the point of his weapon penetrate the mail shirt, pierce the breastbone, and run deep into the chest cavity of his opponent. The entire sequence had taken less than a second.

Corin wrenched his sword free from his dying enemy to catch the wild stroke of his second foe. He had left

himself vulnerable in finishing off the first bandit, but his remaining opponent had been too slow to capitalize on it—just as Corin knew he would. Corin kicked out with his boot, landing a sharp blow to the bandit’s knee. The leg crumpled for a brief second, and as the bandit’s weight slumped forward Corin brought the hilt of his sword crashing into the man’s jaw, sending him reeling back, his arms pinwheeling to keep his balance as his weapon slipped from his grasp. Corin bounded after his foe. Somehow he managed to keep his footing through the muck and mire that used to be the road, his sword carving wide sweeping arcs through the air at belt level, each swipe a few inches closer to the madly retreating bandit than the one before. After three passes Corin made contact, slicing a shallow incision through both armor and skin. The fourth pass bit deep into the bandit’s stomach, ripping a savage gash through his midriff. Corin spun to face the rest of the battle even as the dying man clutched at the intestines and blood pouring out of his ruptured stomach.

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 him in the chest and knocked him onto his back, but he rolled to the side and avoided a lethal strike. He sprang to his feet, but the orog had already recovered and was launching a new assault. Corin slipped and staggered back, ducking and dodging the fierce blade as it ripped through the air. The fury of the orog”s onslaught kept him off balance, leaving him completely on the defensive, unable to even attempt any type of counter attack.

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. Evenings and mornings, too. The ale was flat, stale, and bitter. More often than not roaches and other insects would be found drowned at the bottom of an empty flagon. The serving wenches were old and withered, their tongues sharp with age and made cruel by their own defeats. But the ale was cheap, and none of the other patrons here bothered him. They had problems of their own.

He rose unsteadily to his feet and fished a couple coppers from the pouch at his belt, then dropped them on the table. He staggered across the bar and out into the street, squinting against the brightness of the late afternoon sim. He wove his drunken way down the city street, staring at the ground; his left hand unconsciously rubbing the stump that was once the best sword arm in the now defunct White Shield Company of Elversult.

Two years later…

Xhe brisk morning wind tugged softly at Lhasha’s red silk scarf. Although it rarely fell below freezing in Elversult, the early mornings still held a little nip in the first tenday after the Midwinter Festival. The month of Alturiak wasn’t called the Claws of Winter without reason.

By noon, Lhasha knew, the sun would be out and the light, long-sleeved orange blouse she wore would be more than adequate, but as she watched the faint fog of her own breath as it hit the cool morning air Lhasha regretted leaving her fur-lined cape back in her room. She pulled her arms in tight to her small body, grasping her elbows with tiny, graceful fingers. She felt a chill run down her neck and shivered. This time it was more than just the wind.

Lhasha could feel someone watching her. She glanced from side to side, but the shoppers in the Fair, Elversult’s open air market, were all preoccupied with their own business.

Despite standing just a hair over five feet and weighing a shade less than a hundred pounds Lhasha was used to being noticed in a crowd. She was accustomed to the appreciative stares of men as they admired her silvery-blonde hair and her fine features, or the envious gazes of

women as they mentally appraised the brightly colored silk outfits Lhasha always wore. She enjoyed being the center of attention.

This feeling was different. Threatening. Intimidating. Last night someone had followed her back to her room at the Wyvern’s Pipe. Someone had crept in while she slept. And someone had left a dagger embedded in the pillow just inches from her head.

The warning hadn’t been completely unexpected. Lhasha was one of the most successful, and last remaining, independent cat burglars in the city. She knew her stubborn refusal to join the Purple Masks, the local thieves’ guild, was bound to have consequences. The telltale purple cloth wrapped around the dagger’s handle left no doubt as to who was behind the visit.

She cast another quick glance over the crowd, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The Fair was busy. Not as busy as it would be after the Festival of Greengrass, but even during the final month of winter the Fair did a brisk business. Shopkeepers and merchants hawked their wares. Housewives, stable hands, tradesmen, mercenaries, and adventurers browsed the shops and booths. Humans, dwarves, gnomes, halflings, and even the odd elf gathered daily in the Fair to conduct their business and contribute to the trade that was the economic lifeblood of Elversult.

Lhasha noticed a patrol of city Maces watching over the crowds. Ever since Yanseldara had come to power, Elversult had been marked by a dramatic increase in the numbers of the city guard. Lhasha had yet to run across a party of Maces while ransacking the living room of a rich nobleman, so unlike many of Elversult’s criminal element, she appreciated the order the constables brought to the once violent streets of the city.

The vigilant, visible presence of the Elversult authorities

calmed Lhasha’s nerves and helped her put things in a more rational light. Her unease was simply unfounded paranoia, an understandable reaction to the dagger in her pillow. There was no reason for the Masks to be following her right now. They had made their point last night—join the guild, or get out of the business.

Lhasha was too independent to ever join the guild, and she was far too young to retire. That didn’t leave her with a lot of options. A second visit from the Masks wouldn’t end with just a warning. She could leave town, set up business somewhere else. But where could she go? All the major trade centers along the Dragon Coast had established thieves’ guilds running the show. In Teziir the Astorians would be more likely to break your knees as a warning than leave a dagger behind. In Westgate the Night Masks wouldn’t have given her any warning at all.