he closed in, Algorind lifted his sword high and to his left, and dealt a terrible sweeping blow. The keen sword caught one of the monsters in the throat and cleaved head from body with a single stroke.
Algorind reined his horse around to face his remaining foes. The three of them had abandoned their blood sport and stood to face him, their spears braced and leveled at the white steed's breast. The young paladin sheathed his sword and took his lance from its holder. He raised it high, a chivalrous salute too deeply ingrained to withhold from this unworthy foe, and then couched it under his right arm. He leveled the lance at the foremost orc and urged his horse into a frill, galloping charge.
The horse ran straight at the braced weapons, its wild whinny ringing free as if to acknowledge the danger and defy it. But Algorind had no thought to endanger his steed. This was a tactic they had practiced together many times in the training arena of Summit Hall. His eye measured his lance at twice the length of the ores' spears, and he silently began the rhythmic prayer to Tyr that would count off the measure of his attack.
At just the right moment, he raised himself in the stirrups and pulled up on the reins. On command, the mighty horse leaped. Algorind's lance caught one of the surprised orcs just below the ribs and bore him up and over his shrinking comrades.
Mustering all his strength, Algorind hurled the lance forward as if it were a giant javelin. The effort did not launch the weapon, but countered the force of the impaled orc and kept the paladin's arm from wrenching painfully back. Before the horse's hooves touched down, Algorind pushed out to the side with all his might, casting aside the lance and the dying ore.
The horse landed, cantered a few paces, then wheeled. Two orcs remained. Algorind could not surprise them again. He swung himself down from the saddle and drew his sword.
The orcs rushed at him, spears level. Algorind stood his ground. When the first ore was nearly ffpon him, he swept the sword up hard, catching the spear and turning it toward the sky. He spun, sliding his blade off the upturned spear and bringing it down and around as he turned. The edge sliced across the ore's belly, spilling the contents. The creature stumbled several paces more before he tripped on his own entrails and fell on his face, never to rise again.
Algorind turned to face his final foe. The ore circled him cautiously, using the longer spear to keep the paladin and his blade at a safe distance. 'Challenge,' the beast grunted. 'Same weapons, one to one.'
The young paladin recoiled in surprise. How had a base creature such as this ore learned anything of the paladin's creed? By the rules of his Order, he could not refuse a challenge given, unless the challenger was clearly outmatched. On the other hand, the messenger was badly wounded, perhaps dying. Algorind glanced toward the fallen man. His tunic was sodden with blood, his breathing shallow. To make matters worse, the sun was near to setting, and the wind whistled sharply over the bleak hills. The man needed aid and warmth, and soon. A paladin was pledged to aid the weak. How, Algorind puzzled, was he to chose between these duties?
Algorind eyed his opponent. The ore was the largest of his kind that Algorind had ever seen. He easily topped seven feet, and though his slack greenish hide showed signs of lean times, he was still nearly as broad and thick and fierce as an owlbear. A carved medallion bearing the bloody claw symbol of the evil god Malar hung on a thong around the ore's neck. The wooden disk was nearly the size of a small dinner plate, but it did not seem out of proportion to the creature who wore it.
Yes, this was a foe worth fighting. Algorind could not see his way clear to deny the challenge.
The paladin hooked his boot under one of the spears the fallen ores had dropped. A quick kick sent the weapon spinning up. He sheathed his sword with one hand and snatched the spear out of the air with the other. The ore grinned horribly and spun his spear in challenge, holding it out level before him like a quarterstaff. Algorind mirrored this stance, and the challenge was on.
Ore and paladin circled each other, their eyes alert and their hands tightly gripping the long, stout wooden staves they held out level before them. From time to time one of the staves flashed forward, to be met by an equally deft parry. The irregular rhythm of wood against wood rang out, slowly at first, then increasing in tempo into a percussive flurry.
As the battle went on, the ore's confident sneer hardened into a grimace. Fangs bared, the beast bore down on the young paladin, thundering blow after blow upon his skilled opponent. But Algorind answered each strike, meeting the frenzied rhythm and adding his own thrusts and feints to the clatter of the duel.
The young paladin was breathing hard now and admitted himself sorely tested by the ore's unexpected skill. But he kept his focus and his courage and concentrated on working the monster's staff up high. A risky strategy given the differences in the opponents' strength and stature, but Algorind saw no other choice. Rather than allow himself to be intimidated by his opponent's great size, he would use it to his advantage.
Suddenly Algorind spun the blunt end of the spear down. He accepted the blow that slashed through his relaxed guard, allowing the wooden haft to thump painfully into his chest as he hooked the lower end of the spear behind the ore's boot. A quick twist jerked the ore's feet out from beneath him. The creature fell heavily, flat on his back.
Algorind spun the spear quickly and planted the crude stone point at the ore's throat. 'Yield,' he said, before he remembered to whom he spoke. Such mercy would have been appropriate in a fight between honorable opponents, but this was a creature of evil, not a man of honor. How could Algorind suffer him to live? And how could he not, now that the offer of quarter had been extended?
Fortunately the ore resolved this dilemma. He spat and tipped back his head defiantly, baring his throat as he chose death over surrender.
The paladin struck, leaning hard on the spear and finishing the evil creature in a single quick, merciful stroke. That accomplished, he turned to the messenger.
Algorind gently turned him onto his back and immediately realized two things: first, the man could not possibly survive his hurts, and second, he wore the white and blue tabard that proclaimed him a member of the Knights of Samular. A second, closer look revealed the courier's pouch still strapped to the wounded man's shoulder.
'Brother, take ease,' the young paladin said gently. 'Your duty is done. Here is another to take it from you. The creatures are vanquished, and the hall is but an hour's ride. I will carry your message for you.'
The man nodded painfully and swallowed hard. 'Another,' he croaked out. 'There is an heir.'
Algorind's brow furrowed in puzzlement. With his last strength, the messenger wrenched open the latch on the pouch and drew from it a single sheet of parchment. The words written upon it filled Algorind with awe, and his lips moved in gratefhl prayer to Tyr.
There was another. The great Hronulf, commander of Thornhold, would not be the last, after all. An heir to the bloodline of Samular had been found.
'Almost home,' panted Ebenezer Stoneshaft as he thundered through the deeply buried tunnel.
'Home' was a warren of dwarven tunnels under the Sword Mountains, not far from the sea and too damn close to the trade route just to the east and the human fortress above.
He'd been gone quite a while this time, but it was all so familiar: the damp scent of the tunnels, the faint glow from the luminous moss and lichen that decked the stone walls, and the old paths marked with subtle runes that only a dwarf could read. There had been some changes, though, some new additions. Ledges carved into the walls, and steps and such. At the moment, Ebenezer didn't really have the leisure to examine these innovations closely.
Running full out, the dwarf rounded the tight curve in the tunnel, his short legs pumping. The clatter of his iron-shed boots against the stone floor was all but lost in the rattle and clamor behind him.
Right behind him.
In his ears rang a cacophony of hisses that sounded like a fire-newt left out in the rain, and screeches that would make an eagle cock its head and listen for pointers. Who'd-a thought, he grimly noted, that a mob of over- sized pack rats could raise such a ruckus?
Granted, it was a big pack, as osquips went. Dozens of clawed feet scrabbled against the stone as a score of giant rodents chased after Ebenezer in hot and angry pursuit. And for what? He'd taken a mithral chisel from their pile of shiny trinkets-only one, and only because it was his to take. Belonged to his cousin Hoshal, it did, a dour and reclusive dwarf smith who would string Ebenezer up by his curiy red beard should he get wind of any kin of his being slacker enough to leave a good tool just lying about.
Ebenezer almost stopped. Come to think on it, how did that chisel end up in an osquip trove? It was a family
