But no prisoner could withstand such repeated, vicious attacks. That one made it partway but then was caught by a volley from both sides that sent him crashing into the line. One grinning warrior picked him up and shoved him back into the center then cracked him across the jaw with his thick club.
The prisoner fell on his back. Another guard brought down his weapon, and again it was time to drag the corpse out of the way.
Over and over the gruesome scene repeated itself. The sturdiest of the captives managed to get almost halfway. At one point, the captain of the guard had his warriors switch positions, placing those at the end of the gauntlet closer to the front, so they could have their fun too. Not one prisoner gained his freedom, pleasing the Grand Lord Golgren. Despite that, and despite the fact that the carnage went on for more than two hours, the packed crowd was not in the least put off or bored. They had come for blood, and blood was what they got. And they wanted more.
When the last of the bodies had been unceremoniously dragged away, the captain looked up at Golgren. The grand lord gave an almost congenial nod then looked to Idaria for more wine.
“You are pleased at so many ogres dead?” he murmured to her, his tone possibly mocking, possibly merely inquisitive.
“I have no thoughts on the matter,” Idaria replied calmly with her gaze lowered. “I exist only to serve.”
She was expected to say that. He didn’t pay her any further attention. Golgren accepted the wine, refocusing on the events below.
The warriors who had formed the gauntlet had departed. The robed ogres who had been Zharang’s most ardent supporters were prodded forward at spear point to stand before the grand lord.
At that point they surprised everyone by suddenly whirling about as a group and punching and attacking their guards.
One warrior reacted too slowly, and for his failure he died with his throat crushed in by a set of chains tightly wrapped around it. Another of the prisoners quickly seized his spear and whirled toward Golgren.
But Wargroch reacted quicker, grabbing a nearby guard’s spear and positioning himself in front of the grand lord’s seat. With expert aim, he hurled the spear at the would-be assassin.
The force of his throw shoved the sharp missile right through the robed ogre, who dropped his weapon and grasped at his chest where Wargroch had struck him. However, the spear had sunk in so deep that the prisoner could not pull it free.
The ogre dropped abjectly. Soon his companions lost heart and were subdued.
Khleeg grinned at his lord. “Wargroch prove himself, ke?”
Golgren nodded then beckoned Nagroch’s brother over closer to him. Falling down on one knee, Wargroch awaited his reward.
“You have my favor,” the grand lord decreed. “Let the honor of the executions be by your hand, for that favor.”
The Blodian ogre was gleeful. “Great is the grand lord! Great is Golgren!”
With one eye on the breathless crowd, Golgren rose. He drew the sword at his side-the very blade with which the grand lord had dispatched his former khan-and presented it to Wargroch. The Blodian’s eyes bulged, an even wider grin crossing his toadlike features. The honor that Golgren had bestowed on him with his gesture was not lost on any present.
“Agrani ahwuni i ihwuni! Their blood is your blood!” Wargroch roared, raising the blade up in front of his face in salute to his lord.
Golgren indicated with a thrust of his chin that the fighter had his permission to begin. With incredible agility for one of his massive girth, Wargroch turned and leaped down into the arena, an act that would have left a lesser ogre with a shattered ankle or injured leg. Khleeg let out a grunt of respect at the other warrior’s manifest abilities.
“Golgren is indeed fortunate to have such a one watching his back,” Idaria murmured near the grand lord’s ear.
“But I do not need him, do I?” he replied, his eyes still on the tableau before him. “I have you to watch my back, do I not, my Idaria?”
There was a slight hesitation before she said, “Oh, yes, my master.”
Below, the guard captain had organized the robed prisoners into a tight line and forced them to kneel. Wargroch strode around them, hefting the sword in a manner that enabled him to better get the feel of its weight. Drums beat a steady rhythm, heightening anticipation among the crowd. Satisfied with his grip finally, Wargroch took up a position near the first figure in line and looked up to the grand lord for a signal.
Golgren made a slight cutting motion with his hand.
Teeth bared and with spittle on his lip, Wargroch raised the sword with both hands and slashed downward.
A collective grunt escaped the assembled ogres as the cleanly severed head fell and rolled over toward the wall below Golgren. The grunt of exclamation was immediately followed by the ritual beating of clubs and barking and cheering.
Pleased at the results of his handiwork, Wargroch took up a position behind the next victim. Blood from the previous execution dripped onto the neck of the kneeling robed ogre, who, despite the intense pressure, did not so much as breathe hard.
The drums beat again. Nagroch’s brother steadied himself before he slashed viciously down. Again, the victim’s head rolled cleanly away as the torso flopped forward onto the rocky ground.
One by one, Wargroch solidified his status and reputation by eliminating the rest of Zharang’s inner circle. Khleeg nodded his approval as the others died. Golgren shifted position, looking distracted and once more eyeing Dauroth’s empty seat.
The only two left alive were Wulfgarn and Guln. They had been given a prominent spot to view the proceedings, knowing that their own executions would be the climax and highlight of the day’s events. The older chieftain grew restive, and Guln struggled with his guards, who nonetheless kept their grip on him.
A horn blared, and from the side where the bodies of the dead lay piled like refuse, herders brought forth four huge mastarks. Raised for blood and battle, the beasts were not at all unnerved to find themselves surrounded by the smells of death.
Briefly Guln managed to break free. He made a dash for the nearest exit, but his guards quickly tackled him.
Wargroch, meanwhile, had returned to Golgren and the others. Kneeling before the grand lord, he presented the blade.
Indifferent to the blood staining Wargroch’s garments, Golgren stood and accepted the sword with an approving nod. As Wargroch stepped away, Golgren raised the sword high for all to see.
The crowd roared. Golgren brandished the sword three times then, to the surprise of many in the arena, beckoned Wargroch and handed it back to the Blodian.
Wargroch took the sword and, holding it across his outspread hands, kissed the crimson-tinged blade. He then stepped back, grinning like a child, as the guards prepared the next and final act in the sordid drama.
The giant mastarks stood two abreast with one pair facing the other. The mastarks wore the harnesses designed for toting wagons and such behind them. However, they also wore two chains ending in empty manacles, dangling at the back end of those harnesses.
Using the chains from one animal, the guards snapped a manacle to Wulfgarn’s left wrist. As he desperately tried to resist, they attached the manacle from the other chain to his left ankle.
For Guln, a different torture was to be utilized. Instead of a wrist and ankle, he had both of his wrists manacled to one mastark and both of his ankles manacled to another.
Despite their attempts to struggle free of the guards, both defeated chieftains were quickly chained in place. The crowd shouted its eagerness, the swelling noise causing the mastarks to grow nervous. One of those to whom Wulfgarn was attached took a step forward, tightening the chain and tearing from the ogre an unearthly shriek as bone and muscle threatened to give way.