Ithacles fell like a sack of potatoes, as soon as Ulbarich released him. The need was a desperate one. The orcs were not fighting with any especial discipline, but that meant stragglers were looking for easy meat. Some orcs were brave enough for an entire company of men. Most were looking for someone near death. Wounded, at the very least. And they had one such creature now. His face was covered in rawhide armor of a pale variety. Pale enough that Ulbarich thought he had an idea of where such armor had come from. And what the orc had been eating, just before he'd joined the march into the city.
The nearest weapon was one of the rough, single-edged orc blades that had fallen from the grasp of its dead bearer. This Ulbarich seized in his hands, just in time toi turn aside the first vicious swing of a club. That was all you could do, in truth - redirect the force instead of outright blocking it. The orc was always going to be stronger than you, always going to be larger than you. Speed and diminutive stature - comparatively speaking - became your greatest advantages in such a battle. Another swing turned aside. Ulbarich was giving ground, kicking mud into the air as his boots worked furiously, coming closer and closer to the prince.
An overreaching swing.
Ulbarich moved his feet but not his arms, letting the dead weight of the sword rest against the ground while he flowed beneath the strike. Instead of hacking he dragged up and thrust, plunging the blade into the orc's belly, just below that cracked and frozen leather armor which drenched the bastard's torso. It shrieked - and Ulbarich had just enough time to take a knee, the club striking his pauldron viciously.
Dwarves had forged these pauldrons, but he knew the club would leave a dent. It shook him shoulder to shoulder, boot to brain, and his teeth were still clattering when he tried to think of what to do next. Unfortunately the idea was long in coming.