BlackThorn's Doom Page 0,53

fended off the blow.

Connell went on the offensive hammering away at the Grel’in with all his speed and might.

The smug smile on the pallid warriors face faded as its lips tightened in determination. The foul spirit within the man’s body began to know fear. In the darkest recesses of its mind the man’s spirit slowly became aware. For the first time in many long centuries he awakened. He felt the crushing walls of his prison beginning to erode.

Connell’s arm burned with exertion, his attacks had completely destroyed the buckler upon the Grel’in’s arm.

The Grel’in shook the crushed metal and leather straps onto the ground. Gripping his sword with both hands he plunged the blade for Connell’s chest.

Connell spun to the side and as the Grel’in darted past he struck him across the shoulder. The iron mail held firm and the blade skidded across the Grel’in’s back. A loud resounding crack of breaking bone filled the air.

The Grel’in staggered his shoulder blade shattered by the impact. The possessing spirit passed the pain onto his host and relished in the agony it inflicted. The Grel’in swung about lashing out with its sword. Although it’s shoulder was shattered it did nothing to slow the warrior down.

Connell jumped the blade and with a powerful swing he struck the helm from the Grel’in’s head.

The Grel’in howled fiercely, his skeletal visage a fright to behold. His eyes burned brightly beneath a crown of stringy white hair that grew in thin patches over a leprous pate.

The Grel’in backed away his left eye seeping milky fluid. Within moments the withered lids had sealed shut over the feral orb.

The Grel’in charged forth yet again. The two warriors wove around the clearing, in an amazing display of swordsmanship. Sparks flew from the dancing blades while bell like rings filling the wood.

Connell was gasping, the fire in his arm and chest growing unbearable. He was bleeding from half a dozen cuts, he had a deep gash upon his cheek and part of his left ear was missing. The Grel’in was cut in many places as well, but the loss of blood did little to hamper its skills.

They crashed into each other, locking their swords. After a few moments they separated pushing apart violently. Connell paced about Sur’kar’s foul creation. Once around, then twice, suddenly he leapt forward.

Swords clashed, showering the forest floor with sparks. Connell drove the Grel’in’s sword point to the ground. He withdrew his blade and lashed forward faster than the eye could follow. Blood sprayed through the air and the Grel’in staggered back his neck nearly severed in twain.

With a cry of victory the trapped soul ensnared the usurping spirit holding it within the dying shell it had occupied. Oberon of the golden wood once more was in command and the yellow light within the Grel’in’s eye faded. The pallid face smiled broadly as the body fell face first into the loam. The spirit within dying as its host’s lifeblood spilled out upon the earth.

Connell fell to his knees, no longer having the strength to remain standing.

Yoladt limped over to his side offering him a half filled water skin.

Connell drank deeply. “The Giants?” He asked looking about at the carnage for the first time.

“Dead,” Yoladt answered.

“Good,” Connell slowly came to his feet wincing as he touched his cheek. He smiled as Ild came into view leading a badly bruised and scratched Turlock into the clearing.

“The Tales of your prowess with the blade are not exaggerations.” Turlock said in awe. “I have never seen such skill in all my years.”

“We feared to intervene.” Yoladt added quickly. “None of us could have done nothing more than hamper your efforts.”

“Having sense enough to stay clear was help enough.” Connell said with a dismissing wave of his hand. He looked beyond the fallen trolls and saw the bodies of Erson and argen. Even a veteran of a hundred wars would have found it difficult to look upon their broken forms. “We have won the fight, but it has cost us dearly to do so.”

“Aye,” Turlock mumbled. “We must honor our fallen, but they deserve much more than we can give.”

Yoladt nodded in agreement. “The ground is iron hard and laden with stones. It will take many days to dig proper graves.”

Turlock shook his head. “There will be no graves, nor cairns of stone for these men. Only a pyre will do them justice. As the hero’s of old we shall honor them.”

“What of the Trolls?” Yoladt asked.

“Leave them for the crows.” Turlock