by Troy Osgood
The orc studied the man. They were the same height, but the orc had a good hundred pounds if not more on the man. The orc smiled and took a step forward.
“You are funny little man,” the thing said in its own language.
It took another step forward and lunged, swinging the club in a great arc.
Osten waited and ducked at the last second. He kicked out with his leg, hitting the orc in the shin. It was like kicking a tree. The beast barely moved.
But it did distract the orc.
The creature looked down at where Osten had hit it, a sneer stretching across its wide mouth. The pause was what Osten was looking for.
He moved quickly, stepping around to the back of the orc, drawing a long knife from the sheath attached to his leg. The orc spun, slowly, a couple seconds behind. The beast now saw that his opponent was armed, knife held in the man’s right hand with the point down, and tried to move out of the way but Osten was too quick.
The blade of the knife was only nine inches, but it was long enough for Osten to dart in, swipe the blade across the orcs large chest, and roll out of the way of the expected swing of the club. The beast stared down at the cut. It wasn’t large but it was deep enough to draw blood.
The orc was mad now, not willing to wait for the others to arrive. Which was what Osten was hoping. This fight couldn’t last much longer.
Enraged the beast charged, club held high over its shoulder.
Osten waited, watching the orc start the club’s swing. He moved in the same direction as the swing, the club only a foot or so behind him. He swung around the orc, bent down and slashed across the creature’s left heel. The orc bellowed in pain as Osten continued his swing but standing up and slicing the orc across the back and neck.
Thinking Osten would continue around the right side, the orc swatted the club back that way at the height where it thought the man would be. But Osten wasn’t there. He had bent backwards at the knee, knowing the swing would be coming that way.
Osten flipped the knife over, so the point was up, and stabbed into the thick meat of the orc’s arm. The creature bellowed again and dropped the club. It turned awkwardly on its injured leg, almost falling over, trying to grab at the man.
Rolling over, Osten came up behind the orc and stabbed down into the muscle around the creature’s neck. The knife plunged in deep, blood spurting out. The orc slumped down as it felt muscles and nerves being cut. The creature’s arms dropped.
Pulling out the knife, Osten adjusted his grip and pulled it across the orc’s throat. The orc dropped to the ground, bleeding out. Wiping the blade across the orc to clean it of the black blood, Osten listened intently.
The fight had only lasted seconds but it wouldn’t be long before the rest got there. He had to move. He felt a sensation in the back of his head and turned to see Dusk sitting calmly behind him. The fox, all grays and black with a white patch, tilted its head questioningly at the man.
“Thanks for the help,” Osten said.
The fox chuffed and stood up, moving away from the ridge, back the way Osten had come.
“Let’s get going,” he said sheathing the knife and pulling his cloak about him. He crouched low and started jogging down the hill.
Together, the man and fox disappeared in the tall grass of the plains at the bottom of the hill. They could just barely hear the sounds of orcs rushing the ridge and finding their dead fellow. Soon they heard the sounds of pursuit.