Lord Soth (12 page)

Soth gauged the distance between his men and the ogres. He was close enough that any thoughts in the ogres’ minds about running for cover would be out of the question. The knights would easily be upon them before they reached safety.

No, Soth’s attack plan had left them only one option, stand and fight.

Soth raised his sword high above him and kicked at his mount. The horse surged forward and in seconds the air was full of the sounds of charging hoofs.

The first ogre to see Soth stared at the knight for a moment as if he were looking at death itself. He moved left, then right, then finally picked up his nearby club and took up an improvised battle stance, ready to fight.

Soth continued to charge, leaning right and swinging his sword, the length of which outdistanced the ogre’s club by half. The leading edge of the blade cut through the ogre’s midsection, spattering Soth and his horse with blood. The ogre stood upright a moment, then doubled
over before dropping heavily to the ground.

Quickly, the rest of the ogres became aware of the oncoming knights. Some decided to flee, heading north or south in search of cover. The last knights on either side broke off from the main assault to take care of these, cutting them down as they ran. After that, the knights swung around to rejoin the main group, leaving any further runners for the knights positioned to the north and south of the village.

Soth’s charge had brought him through Center Square. He stopped his horse and dismounted, preferring to fight the rest of the battle on foot. The other knights had also dismounted and were now involved in close fighting, each knight battling one or more of the ogres who had remained to fight.

Soth approached the fray, eager to even the odds.

“It’s not fair,” said Farold.

The Knight of the Sword had led his party through the fields unnoticed and now looked across the main road at the two buildings serving as a makeshift prison for the villagers.

“What’s not fair?” asked Kris Krejlgaard, a Knight of the Crown who had just returned from inspecting the mercantile and trade center, both of which proved to have been cleared out by the ogres.

“The stupid brutes have posted a single guard outside the prison and that one’s asleep on the job.”

“Perhaps their victory celebrations went long into the night?” offered Krejlgaard.

“Indeed, they must have.”

“But you can’t kill him as he sleeps.”

“No, of course not,” said Farold. It was forbidden by the Measure to kill an opponent whilst unawares. “But I doubt he’ll put up much of a fight after I wake him.”

“No,” said Krejlgaard. “In his condition, I suppose not.”

Farold rose up, walked boldly across the street and kicked at the feet of the sleeping ogre.

“Huh? What?” the beast sputtered.

“Surrender, or die at my blade,” said Farold.

The ogre threw a handful of dirt into Farold’s face, reached for his nearby spike-end club and leaped up from the ground.

Farold was blinded for a moment, cursing as he wiped his eyes. Luckily he was able to recover from the dirty tactic in time to meet the ogre’s challenge.

While Farold and the ogre fought, Krejlgaard went to the two buildings on the west side of the road and released the imprisoned villagers. Then he escorted them to the mercantile where the two other knights in Farold’s command waited with the small amounts of food, water and other supplies they had carried in their packs.

When Krejlgaard rejoined Farold, the Sword knight was standing over his fallen enemy looking none the worse for the battle.

“That didn’t take long,” said Krejlgaard.

“I suspect his abilities were muddled by sleep,” said Farold, his voice edged with a hint of regret. “That or by last night’s ale.”

“Perhaps he would have been wise to remember the squire’s first rule.”

“So it would seem,” said Farold, his eyes already scanning the village before him.

Off in the distance, sounds of a much larger battle could be heard.

Without another word between them, the two knights headed south.

Soth searched the square for an opponent. He found one in the largest of the ogres who was looking behind a grain cart for an unsuspecting knight.

“I’m over here, you ugly brute,” said Soth, putting a boot to the ogre’s backside and pushing him headfirst into the dirt.

The ogre tumbled and grunted, then looked up at Soth. “Didn’t know Knights of Solamnia fought like common tavern wenches.”

Soth was amused by the remark and grateful his opponent had a sense of humor. “Only when fighting old maids.”

The ogre stood up, and for the first time Soth realized the beast was a full head taller than himself.

They began trading blows and for a while it was all Soth could do to keep up with the ogre. He’d been able to cut his foe here and there, but the opportunity for a death blow had so far eluded him.

The ogre blocked an overhanded swing of Soth’s sword, then countered with a punch to Soth’s ribs. His armor softened much of the blow, but it still hurt him.

And that’s when the ogre made his one fatal mistake.

He became a little overconfident.

“You’re not a bad fighter for a human. There must be some ogre blood in you, probably on your mother’s side.”

The remark enraged Soth, blinding him with fury. The Soth family was a noble one, certainly free of the vile taint of something as disgusting as ogre blood.

With a roar, Soth was upon the beast, his broadsword moving surely and swiftly, making it seem as if there were two or more swords fighting on his behalf.

The ogre fought off Soth’s advances, but eventually began to tire. Soth was able to strike him at will, and took great delight in killing him slowly—wounding him on the shoulder, then the leg, stabbing him in the chest, then the stomach.

The ogre fell heavily to the ground, bleeding but still very much alive.

But Soth showed no mercy, continuing to hack at the body, lopping off limbs and cutting deeply into the flesh,
again and again until the once formidable beast was little more than a grotesque lump of gore.

“Milord,” said a voice of one of the knights.

Soth didn’t hear it.

“Milord!” the knight called again.

Soth continued to stab and chop at the dead ogre.

Finally the knight, Darin Valcic, grabbed at Soth’s arm. “He’s dead, milord.”

Soth stopped at last, his sword poised over his right shoulder and his breath coming hard and fast.

“There are still others … alive,” said Valcic.

“Then let us find them,” said Soth, his eyes alight with a dangerously bright glint of rage.

Caradoc stepped quietly through the bush. He’d heard sounds of movement in the distance and was slowly making his way toward their source.

After a few steps he stopped again and listened. It sounded as if someone was breathing hard. Most likely it was an ogre fleeing the battle that was now raging in the center of the village.

Caradoc continued his approach, being careful not to alert the ogre to his presence. Behind him, he could hear the faint footsteps of Wersten Kern as he came to join him. Caradoc turned, faced the knight and gestured that he should circle around the back of their enemy.

Kern nodded and headed off through the bush.

When the younger knight was out of earshot, Caradoc continued his hunt of the lone ogre. He’d traveled several more yards and stopped. The sound of the ogre’s breathing was heavy and loud. In fact he was so close now that he could almost smell the beast’s foul breath.

Caradoc pulled back a branch …

And there was the ogre, his back to Caradoc, no doubt watching the village to see if he were being pursued. The
ogre was a large one, a full head taller than Caradoc and with long, wild hair that covered his shoulders and most of his back like a horse’s mane. The beast’s arms were as thick as Caradoc’s thighs and his legs easily reminded one of tree trunks.

Caradoc took a breath and readied his sword. Then he slipped through the few remaining trees and prepared himself for a fight.

And at that moment the ogre turned.

From the look on his face, he was obviously surprised, but no longer inclined to flee. The ogre drew his huge sword and held it before him as he lunged toward Caradoc.

The knight was able to deflect the initial thrust with his shield, but the force of the blow caused a sharp stab of pain to shoot up the length of his arm. Still, Caradoc managed to strike a retaliatory blow against the ogre’s naked thigh. It was a glancing blow, but still strong enough to slow the beast down.

After trading several ineffective blows, the two combatants squared off once more, this time as if ready to begin the fight anew.

“Caradoc!” It was the voice of Wersten Kern coming from somewhere deep in the bush.

The ogre turned to face this new threat approaching from behind, and when he did, Caradoc raised his sword and struck the beast in the back of the head.

Dead.

Seconds later, Kern appeared through the bush. When he looked at the ogre lying prone on the forest floor, his eyes opened wide in awe. “Look at the size of him!”

“He put up a valiant fight,” said Caradoc, standing over the fallen ogre with one foot resting on its chest. “But in the end he proved to be no match for my blade.”

Kern looked upon his fellow knight with an admiring eye, obviously not having seen the underhanded way in which Caradoc had felled the beast. “Well done, Knight
Caradoc,” cheered Kern.

“Thank you, Knight Kern,” Caradoc said, bowing slightly.

There was a moment of silence between them.

“Well, enough of this,” said Kern. “This fight is over, but there is still a battle to be won.”

“Lead the way,” said Caradoc.

The battle in Center Square was brief.

Several of the ogres had fallen during the initial attack, reducing their force to a more manageable number. Then as the battle continued and more ogres fell, the will to fight in the ones that remained seemed to weaken, opening the way for a virtual rout over the loosely knit army of marauding beasts.

And now, bloody ogres littered the square.