“Kifu i harag ne!” the prisoner blurted. “Kifu i harag ne!”
The torturer, bald from age, had only one tusk, one that was almost completely broken off. He grunted at the defiance and looked to Golgren for his orders once more.
Baring his filed-down tusks, Golgren indicated the torturer should get on with his work.
A second delicate squeeze of the thorax sent another miniscule drop squirting onto the ogre’s eye, landing almost exactly where the other had fallen.
And just as happened with the first drop, that one sent the traitorous guard into shrieks and spasms of agony.
“If you would have commanded it,” said a voice in Common. “I could have given you his answers long ago, oh Grand Lord.”
The guard on duty flinched, belatedly readying his heavy sword for action. The torturer, who had seen so much in his job, only gave Golgren’s visitor a surreptitious glance before resuming his study of the effects of the arachnid’s poison.
“Dauroth.” Golgren’s tone indicated he had expected the Titan, even though there had been no request by the ogre leader for the spellcaster’s presence. “Your studies have gone well?”
“Well enough,” the Titan replied vaguely.
Golgren returned his attention to the prisoner. At his nod, the torturer prepared the arachnid for another application.
“The ghlideesh is an effective torture for most prisoners, but this guard appears especially resistant, oh Grand Lord.” The Titan glided forward. Out of deference, the torturer quickly pulled back. “Please to allow me.”
Golgren said nothing. The giant spellcaster leaned over the prisoner, who reacted to him the same way he had reacted to the ghlideesh, writhing and shrieking.
“Hush,” whispered Dauroth, slowly moving his palm above the captive’s face. “Calm.”
“Kifu i harag ne,” murmured the bound figure. “Kifu i harag-”
“Hush … silence.”
The prisoner suddenly became motionless. Dauroth brought his other palm over the victim’s face. A faint, purple glow emanated between the spellcaster’s two hands.
The torturer watched closely because he was always interested in variations of his craft, even magical ones.
“Zin isala, zin isol… ” The Titan repeated the words several times. Although they sounded like words in the ogre tongue, for Golgren and the rest they had no obvious meaning.
But the captive guard reacted to them as though he understood. His body jerked, his eyes focusing on the purple glow.
“Venemok… venemok,” Dauroth said slowly.
The figure on the table gasped. His eyes-even the reddened one-glazed over.
“Venemok,” continued Dauroth. “The name … ”
But the first sounds out of the prisoner’s mouth were far from a name. “D-d-d-”
The Titan’s hands drew nearer to the face, the tips of the ebony talons actually digging into the flesh. The captive did not even flinch, so utterly did Dauroth control his will.
“Venemok … ”
“D-d-Donnnnaggg … Donnag. Donnag. Donnag. Donnag.”
It seemed likely the temple guard would have gone on repeating the disgraced chieftain’s name forever if Dauroth had not jerked away from him as if he’d been slapped in the face. The lead Titan spun toward Golgren.
“Grand Lord! We have nothing to do with this treachery! Donnag is not even one of us anymore! You cannot believe-”
“Donnag is guilty, yes, this and only this I believe,” Golgren, his face set grimly, replied.
“Naturally, it is we who should deal with this monstrous traitor.”
“No. Donnag shall present his head to me. As you said, the chieftain is not a Titan any longer. They and you should not be concerned, yes?”
Dauroth bowed his head in agreement.
Emerald eyes narrowed, Golgren strode past the spellcaster to inspect the abject prisoner. The former guard was only just coming out of the trance that had been cast over him by Dauroth. His frantic eyes met the grand lord’s.
“F’han,” the ogre leader whispered to him.
Golgren’s lone hand shot out, striking the prisoner directly across the throat with incredible force. The prisoner gagged for a moment; then his head slumped to the side, the needle framework keeping the dead orbs staring sightlessly.
The grand lord turned to give his attention to the giant spellcaster, but Dauroth was already gone.
A grin that held no mirth spread across Golgren’s half-elf face.
The riders and messenger birds departed within the hour to alert all khans and chieftains in both ogre lands that Donnag was guilty of high treason against the grand lord and that any, even clan, who offered the former ruler sanctuary would share his fate. The word of the Grand Lord Golgren was absolute.
But even Golgren knew that there would be those who would aid Donnag despite the danger to themselves.
Donnag’s transformation continued unabated. Even his most loyal kin and guards-many of whom had served him since before the days when he, not the mongrel, had seemed destined to unite the ogre race-sought to avoid contact with him as much as possible. He would have turned for aid to his son, who was a mage, but Maldred was as despised by Donnag as he was by Golgren, and besides, Maldred had mysteriously vanished some months back. The once-great chieftain had fallen so low he would have been willing to scrape before his dubious offspring.
Donnag was well aware of the Abominations, Dauroth’s punishment for those he felt had betrayed him. At least his fate was better than theirs … for the time being. Though, as his degeneration continued, Donnag wondered if a point would come when there would be little difference between him and the accursed ones.
A terrible thirst overcame him. He was always thirsty. No matter how much water, wine, or other liquid he swallowed, the once-mighty chieftain always felt parched. Thick stubs that were all that remained of the fingers on his one hand clumsily fought to grip the handle of a curved, clay jug. After a struggle, Donnag managed to maneuver the vessel close to the lips of his misshapen mouth and pour most of the contents-yellow-tinted tuscru j’in ale-down his gullet. As usual, the rest of the quickly-souring drink spilled over his chin and down his robe, which was already badly stained and soiled.
In a sudden burst of frustration at his inability to perform even that simple task, the mockery that had once been a powerful warlord hurled the jug to the side. It bounced harmlessly against the interior of the goatskin tent then struck the rocky ground hard enough to break, cracking open. The tuscru j’in ale spilled over the ground inside the tent.
Donnag rose to his feet, although he was far from the height he had once commanded. When younger, he had stood nearly ten feet tall; as a Titan, he had actually been taller than the others by a hand. That time seemed a long-ago dream, not any past reality; a period so short he could barely recall it.
A young female entered through the goatskin flaps of the tent to check on the disturbance she had heard. Her curved hips and smaller tusks enticed Donnag, but he made no move to grab lustily at her as he once would have done. The obvious revulsion and fear in her eyes were only part of the reason; Donnag was beyond the pleasures of the flesh, and his own shame at what he had become made him simply wish for her to leave.
That the female did the moment she had retrieved the pieces of the shattered pot. With one last, fleeting glance at the former ruler-likely from fear that he would after all try to clutch her-the other ogre vanished through the tent flaps.
Donnag let out a growl, which out of his twisted throat emerged more like a rasping cough. Spittle dripped over the thick growth that passed for his lower lip. With tremendous effort, he shoved himself up off the soiled animal skin upon which he had been resting and tried to straighten up. Unfortunately, his back was more malformed than ever, so he stood bent and looked as though he were contemplating his feet.