All his life, he had longed to be a knight. By the happiest of circumstances, his father, a nobleman of proud lineage but light purse, had delivered his third-born son to Summit Hall before his tenth birthday to be raised and trained by the Order. Algorind had not seen his family since, but he did not feel loss. He was surrounded by young men of like ambition, future priests and paladins devoted to Tyr’s service. Were not all the young acolytes his brothers? And the masters of the hall more than father to him?
These thoughts contented him as he fulfilled the last hour of his watch. Other than the dislodged boulders, the patrol had been without incident. Algorind was almost disappointed; he had hoped to contribute to the Order’s latest venture. The knights, during their training forays into the surrounding countryside, had discovered and routed clans of orcs. The surviving beasts roamed the hills, terrorizing travelers and farmers. May Tyr grant that the last of them be found soon, Algorind thought piously, and the evil they represent vanquished.
A muffled cry caught his ear, followed by a chilling riff of guttural laughter that could not possibly have come from a human throat. Algorind drew his sword and held it aloft as he spurred his horse on to battle.
The white horse thundered around a bend in the path, down a rock-strewn hill and toward a scene that kindled Algorind’s wrath. Four orcs—great, monstrous creatures with stringy muscles covered by filthy greenish hide—were tormenting a lone messenger. The man was on the ground and curied up tight, his arms clutching his many garish wounds as if he could hold in life by sheer will. The orcs were circling him and prodding at him with their rude spears, looking for all the world like a small pack of sadistic tomcats worrying a single mouse.
The orcs looked up at Algorind’s swift reproach, their sneers frozen by sudden terror into skeleton-grins. As 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.