Though neither particularly intelligent nor well educated, Jehan held firm to two beliefs pertinent to his current situation. First, that although little better than animals rutting and bickering in their caves, orcs had certain primal instincts – their keen senses, their bestial cunning, their ferocity in battle – that a warrior of the north did well to heed. Second, that only those both superstitious and foolish acknowledged and feared the existence of the supernatural.
Like any good soldier, the knight of the Golden Eagle did pay homage to certain personal superstitions, believing that had helped keep him alive thus far in his war-torn life. He tied his britches in a certain fashion for luck, kissed his blade whenever he faced battle, and wiped it clean thrice on each side before sheathing it again. But Jehan Leitdorf, big and oafish as he might seem to another’s eyes, was nobody’s fool.
Thus when the orc at his side bellowed something fierce and deflected a blow on his shield, Jehan withdrew his gleaming longsword from its leather scabbard and brought it to his lips in time-honoured ritual. When the orc roared again and shoved forward with all his might, the knight stepped to flank his as-yet unseen opponent, far more dextrously than anybody wearing so much armour had any right to move. When the orc’s momentum carried him powerfully across the courtyard he kept pace with the ringing echo of metal against stone, waiting for either his ally to overextend or their opponent to reveal himself. The bludgeoning steel in his hands poised overhead amidst curling tendrils of mist, ready to decapitate with a single mighty blow.
Compared to the wars he had fought in the north, to the whispered whistles that heralded a wyrmkin ambush or the mindless savagery of Those Who Came from the Deeps, he enjoyed the certain simplicity of his current fight. Something had attacked him and his companion, without warning or explanation.
He was therefore fully justified in beating it back to the abyss where it belonged.