His first step nearly sent him tripping over the hem of the ragged brown robe he wore. The robe made him feel like an elderly female. He, who used to go into battle with his chest unprotected, covered himself from head to toe. His most ardent supporters could not bear to see his disgusting flesh, and even he was revolted by the sight of so many thick boils, the rampant scaly patches of skin, and worse sores.
How much longer any of his followers, even his kin, would continue to give him any support was a question he pondered every day. They knew of his connections to the Titans and, because of those connections, believed his assurances that one day he would be restored to beauty and power. They did not yet suspect the truth, that Morgada’s failure to convince the spellcasters to give him another chance spelled his certain doom … unless something no one expected befell the half-breed.
Yes, for Donnag to live, Golgren had to die.
“My poor, poor Donnag,” came the voice that he secretly hated as much as the grand lord’s. “I did all that I could for you, and this is the gratitude with which you remember me.”
“D-Dauroth!” The lead Titan loomed before him so suddenly and so tall that Donnag gave a start. He could not even see his face until the blue-skinned giant had backed up a few paces.
“You may save your breath, my old friend. I know how troublesome it is for you to speak.”
With a guttural roar, Donnag flung himself at the Titan only to be sent hurtling back in the opposite direction.
“That would have once been beneath you,” Dauroth reproached him calmly. “As is so much you have done of late. Did I not promise you once that there would come a day when you would be brought back into the fold if only you could be patient?”
“H-have! Patient, have been!” Donnag gazed past the other, wondering why no one had come running at his shouts. Once, a mere whisper by the chieftain would have brought a dozen able guards to his side. Apparently, they had turned deaf to his plight.
The Titan sighed. “Oh, I have blocked all sound from those without. That is why no one is coming to your aid. Really, Donnag! Have you forgotten so much?”
The grotesque figure spit. The ugly missile did not come even close to Dauroth, but the spellcaster nevertheless shook his head disapprovingly.
“You were and are ungrateful. Despite that, I have done what I could for you even in the face of Golgren’s wrath. He has condemned you now for attempting to slay him and all in the two lands are now to hunt you and bring you to his feet.”
“But I … d-did … nothing!” Donnag managed.
“I dare not rescind his command,” Dauroth replied, seeming not to hear or care about the other’s protest of innocence. “But out of a last gesture for our former friendship, I have done you a blessing.” The spellcaster held out his hand, and a well-worn, twin-edged battle axe that sat to the side of Donnag flew up into the Titan’s hand. Dauroth easily wielded it, testing its weight. “You will have need of this.”
The axe flew at Donnag, who, despite his twisted form, managed to catch it.
“Through other channels, I have let your kin know the news of your condemnation.” Ignoring Donnag’s grunt of outrage, the Titan added, “They know what aiding you would mean for them now.”
“But … I … did not-”
“What you did or did not do does not matter anymore.” Dauroth cocked an ear toward the tent flap. “Ready yourself, my old friend. I think they come even now.”
Reacting instinctively, the fallen chieftain swung at the giant.
His axe met only air. Dauroth was gone.
But another figure materialized through the entrance barely a breath afterward. Donnag recognized him as one of his cousins, a young and capable warrior whom he had once intended to command his personal guard.
The one who had been intended to protect Donnag’s life sought to take it instead. Wielding an axe nearly as great as that gripped by his adversary, the cousin-a lean, eager fighter in his prime-leaped at Donnag.
Yet although the latter was not the warrior he had once been, there remained residual skills and training that even the monstrous transformation could not yet eradicate. Donnag blocked one blow then a second then, using his shorter stature to his advantage, jammed the pointed axe head into his kinsman’s stomach.
The younger warrior let out a gasp. Eyes bulging, he dropped his weapon.
Donnag finished him off with a swift slash across the chest. It was the first pleasure that he had felt in a long time.
But as the one intruder fell, two more charged into the tent. One was distant kin, the other a warrior sworn to the clan.
“Du daka f’han iDonnagi!” shouted his blood relation.
“Jaro Gyun!” the elder ogre managed to rasp back, adding his spit to the insult. They dared demand that he had to die for their sake, he who had given them so much?
It was odd that, even as his fate was sealed, Donnag found his thoughts clear. He had been thinking clearly for the past hour or so. Perhaps the gods had played a final trick on him, letting him understand and be aware of his downfall. Indeed, that sounded like Sirrion; for was that god not the bane of all ogres, setting the sun so hot over the land?
His accursed blood and the other warrior came at him from opposite sides. The guard wielded a sword, which, thanks to the good deeds of the Grand Lord Golgren, was sharply honed and polished. Donnag had little hope of quickly smashing the blade apart, as used to happen often when he fought in the old days.
He met the blade dead on then blocked the other axe. Twice more, Donnag managed to deflect the pair’s blows. He began to feel like a real fighter again, aware that only his monstrous body kept him from easily dispatching the pair.
Indeed, Donnag succeeded in slicing his relation across the forearm, which caused the latter to momentarily retreat. Unfortunately, another pair of foes rushed into the tent, including one close cousin whose father had been Donnag’s father’s brother. Among ogres, such a male-linked relationship was akin to a brotherly bond.
“iKarnagi.” The former chieftain swung back and forth, clearing the path to his greatest of betrayers. If he could at least take his cousin to the grave with him …
The guard with the sword thrust. Unable to move as nimbly as in the past, Donnag could not entirely evade the attack. The blade sank into his side. Blood and pus spilled forth. The bleeding was heavy; his reflexes would be further slowed.
His cousin Karnag stood before him, an axe in one hand, a sword in the other. Donnag had taught his cousin many of his tricks, and even then Karnag executed a move that the older warrior well recognized. Donnag countered it with one he had not shown his cousin and then, while Karnag was caught off guard, followed through with a lunge of his own.
But the warped body he was trapped inside began to betray Donnag. His swing went awry, and he stumbled to his knees. His usable fingers lost their grip on the axe.
Then Karnag’s axe swung true, burying itself in his shoulder. Ironically, Donnag’s transformation kept the weapon from sinking as deeply as it should have, for the blade found instead of soft flesh a hardened mass almost like stone.
But more was coming. First a sword pierced his other shoulder, then another axe all but severed his right arm. Crying out, his blood gushing, Donnag sprawled onto the ground.
“F’han, iDonnagi… dukara f’han,” his cousin pronounced.
Donnag forced his face up, meeting, as best he could, the eyes of his executioner.