Obould stretched his arms out wide, fires leaping from the blade of his greatsword as he held it aloft in his right hand. He threw back his head and bellowed.
Grguch did likewise, axe out wide, his roar echoing across the stones, the challenge accepted. Up the hill he ran, hoisting his axe in both hands and bringing it back over his left shoulder.
Obould tried for the quick kill, feigning a defensive posture, but then leaping down at the approaching chieftain and stabbing straight ahead. Across came Grguch’s axe with brutal and sudden efficiency, the half-ogre chopping short to smash his dragon-winged weapon against Obould’s blade. He turned it sidelong as he swiped, the winged blades perpendicular to the ground, but so strong was the beast that the resistance as he brought the axe across didn’t slow his swing in the least. By doing it that way, his blade obscuring nearly three feet top-to-bottom, Grguch prevented Obould from turning his greatsword over the block.
Obould just let his sword get knocked out to his left, and instead of letting go with his right hand, as would be expected, the cunning orc let go with his left, allowing him to spin in behind the cut of Grguch’s axe. He went forward as he went around, lowering his soon-leading left shoulder as he collided with Grguch.
The pair slid down the stony hill, and to Obould’s amazement, Grguch did not fall. Grguch met his heavy charge with equal strength.
He was taller than Obould by several inches, but Obould had been blessed by Gruumsh, had been given the strength of the bull, a might of arm that had allowed him to bowl over Gerti Orelsdottr of the frost giants.
But not Grguch.
The two struggled, their weapon arms, Obould’s right and Grguch’s left, locked at one side. Obould slugged Grguch hard in the face, snapping his head back, but as he recoiled from that stinging blow, Grguch snapped his head forward, inside the next punch, and crunched his forehead into Obould’s nose.
They clutched, they twisted, and they postured, and both tried to shove back at the same time, sending themselves skidding far apart.
Right back they went with identical blows, axe and sword meeting with tremendous force, so powerfully that a gout of flames flew free of Obould’s sword and burst into the air.
“As Tos’un told us,” Drizzt said to Bruenor as they slipped between fights to come in view of the great struggle.
“Think they’d forget each other and turn on us, elf?” Bruenor asked hopefully.
“Likely not—not Obould, at least,” Drizzt replied dryly, stealing Bruenor’s mirth, and he led the dwarf around a pile of stones that hadn’t yet been set on the walls.
“Bah! Ye’re bats!”
“Two futures clear before us,” Drizzt remarked. “What does Moradin say to Bruenor?”
Before Bruenor could answer, as Drizzt came around the pile, a pair of orcs leaped at him. He snapped up both his blades and threw himself backward, quickstepping across Bruenor’s field of vision and dragging the bloodthirsty orcs with him.
The dwarf’s axe came crashing down, and then there was one.
And that orc twisted and half-turned, startled by Bruenor and never imagining that Drizzt could be nimble enough to reverse his field so quickly.
The orc got hit four times by Drizzt’s scimitars, and Bruenor creased its skull for good measure, and the pair rambled along.
Before them, much closer, Obould and Grguch clutched again, and traded a series of brutal punches that splattered blood from both faces.
“Two roads before us,” Drizzt said, and he looked at Bruenor earnestly.
The dwarf shrugged then tapped his axe against Drizzt’s scimitars. “For the good o’ the world, elf,” he said. “For the kids o’ me kin and me trust for me friends. And ye’re still bats.”
Every swing brought enough force to score a kill, every cut cracked through the air. They were orcs, one half ogre, but they fought as giants, titans even, gods among their respective people.
Bred for battle, trained in battle, hardened as his skin had calloused, and propped by magical spells from Hakuun, and secretly from Jack the Gnome, Grguch moved his heavy axe with the speed and precision with which a Calimport assassin might wield a dagger. None in Clan Karuck, not the largest and the strongest, questioned Grguch’s leadership role, for none in that clan would dare oppose him. With good reason, Obould understood all too quickly, as the chieftain pressed him ferociously.
Blessed by Gruumsh, infused with the strength of a chosen being, and veteran of so many battles, Obould equaled his opponent, muscle for muscle. And unlike so many power-driven warriors who could smash a weapon right through an opponent’s defenses, Obould combined finesse and speed with that sheer strength. He had matched blades with Drizzt Do’Urden, and overmatched Wulfgar with brawn. And so he met Grguch’s heavy strikes with powerful blocks, and so he similarly pressed Grguch with mighty counterstrikes that made the chieftain’s arms strain to hold back the deadly greatsword.
Grguch rushed around to Obould’s left, up the hill a short expanse. He turned back from that higher ground and drove a tremendous overhand chop down at the orc king, and Obould nearly buckled under the weight of the blow, his feet sliding back dangerously beneath him.
Grguch struck again, and a third time, but Obould went out to the side suddenly, and that third chop cut nothing but air, forcing Grguch down the hill a few quick steps.
They stood even again, and with the miss, Obould gained an offensive posture. Both hands grasping his sword, he smashed it in from the right then the left then right again. Grguch moved to a solely defensive posture, axe darting left and right to block.
Obould quickened the pace, slashing with abandon, allowing Grguch no chance for a counter. He brought forth fire on his blade then winked it out with a thought—and brought it forth again, just to command more of his opponent’s attention, to further occupy Grguch.
Left and right came the greatsword, then three overhead chops, battering Grguch’s blocking blade, sending shivers through the chieftain’s muscled arms. Obould did not tire, and more furious came his strikes, backing his opponent.
Grguch was no longer looking for an opening to counter, Obould knew. Grguch tried only to find a way to disengage, to put them back on even ground.
Obould wouldn’t give it to him. The chieftain was worthy, indeed, but in the end, he was no Obould.
A blinding flash and a thunderous retort broke the orc king’s momentum and rhythm, and as he recovered from the initial, stunning shock of it, he realized that he had lost more than advantage. His legs twitched and could hardly hold him upright. His greatsword trembled violently and his teeth chattered so uncontrollably that he tore strips of skin from the inside of his mouth.
A wizard’s lightning bolt, he understood somewhere deep in the recesses of his dazed mind, and a mighty one.
His block of Grguch’s next attack was purely coincidental, his greatsword fortunately in the way of the swing. Or maybe Grguch had aimed for the weapon, Obould realized as he staggered back from the weight of the blow, fighting to hold his balance with every stumbling, disoriented step.
He offered a better attempt to block the next sidelong swing, turning to the left and presenting his sword at a perfect angle to intercept the flying axe.
A perfect parry, except that Obould’s twitching legs gave out under the weight of the blow. He skidded half-backward and half-sidelong down the hill and went down to one knee.
Grguch hit his sword again, knocking it aside, and as the chieftain stepped forward, bringing his blade back yet again, Obould realized that he had little defense.
A booted foot stomped hard on the back of Obould’s neck, driving him low, and he tried to turn and lash out at what he deemed to be a new attacker.