The Philosophical Strangler(108)

And, besides, it wasn’t the first time in my life I’d been chased by something bigger than me. If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was scramble-duck-and-dodge.

Oh, I led it a merry chase, if I say so myself, for at least a minute. Then it got sticky, when I slipped on a loose stone and fell flat on my face. By the time I scrambled back to my feet, the Ogre was right there, reaching for me with its talons.

But there weren’t actually that many talons left, just a bunch of bleeding stumps. Gwendolyn’s cleaver-work, that. And with Greyboar still hanging on in the front, the Ogre had to stoop to reach me with its gigantic maw.

Which it did, Greyboar flip-flopping around on its belly. But my two throwing knives went into the gullet, which seemed to discombobulate the monster for a moment. And then—I don’t know where he came from—Wittgenstein was perched right on its snout pissing into its eyes.

Horrid stuff, salamander piss. Especially Wittgenstein’s. The Ogre squawled and forgot all about me. Eyes squeezed tight shut, it was frantically pawing at its snout. But Wittgenstein was long gone by then. The familiar scampered off the monster and scuttled through my legs.

“You owe me, Ignace,” it hissed along the way. “Breakfast in bed, twice.”

I wasn’t about to argue the point. Fact is, my long-standing dislike for the surly little creature had completely disappeared. Let’s hear it for unnatural amphibians!

I started scrambling away myself. Then, behind me, I heard a great thud. I turned around and saw that the Ogre had collapsed to its knees. Hrundig and the Cat must have finally worked through to the sinews.

The Ogre’s eyes were open again, but they seemed empty of any emotion beyond dull confusion. I realized that Greyboar’s death grip was taking its toll. His huge hands were sunk completely into the monster’s neck. If the damned thing wasn’t so stupid it would have been unconscious by now.

The Ogre’s maw was gaping wide again, but this time it was purely a grimace. A moment later, Magrit waddled up and tossed a handful of some kind of powdery stuff down its throat.

“Hold your breath, girls!” she called out cheerfully. “One of my special concoctions—you don’t want any part of it.”

Some of the stuff, whatever it was, must have drifted onto Jenny and Angela. Both of them reared back from the Ogre’s ears—what was left of them—and started hacking and coughing.

“Oh—yuch!” squeaked Angela. “That’s even worse than the ear!” Jenny didn’t say anything. She just looked purely nauseated.

So did the Ogre. Its eyes bulged. Then Gwendolyn released her scissor lock and hoisted herself higher onto the monster’s shoulders. An instant later, she plunged her cleaver hilt-deep into the Ogre’s left eye. Two seconds later, did the same for the right.

And that, as they say, was all she wrote. The Ogre swayed back and forth on its knees for maybe five seconds, and collapsed right on top of Greyboar. The strangler still had his hands locked in place. Gwendolyn and Jenny and Angela spilled off onto the floor of the grotto.

Hrundig took one last vicious hack at the monster’s heel tendon—what was left of it—and danced away. He looked as fresh as a daisy, despite the rigors of his swordplay. I would have been amazed, except I knew that Hrundig made a religion out of endurance training.

The Cat seemed more worn out, but not much. Just breathing heavily.

“I take it all back,” she said, her chest heaving a bit. “That stuff about silly exercises.”

Hrundig grinned. “Stamina, woman. I told you. It’s the soldier’s best friend.”

The Ogre’s body lurched and rolled over onto its back. Greyboar pried himself out from under and stumbled to his feet.

He was not in a good mood. His head swiveled, bringing the wizard under his hot gaze.

“Zulkeh!” he roared. “What was the big idea, stirring this thing up?”

His words triggered off my own temper. “Yeah! And where were you all this time, you—”

I choked off the words. The mage was ignoring us completely. He was hopping back and forth on one leg, with a huge tome clutched in his hands, reciting from it aloud.

“—and thus, by the power of the wine-dark sea, do I smite thee with my rosy finger!”

He pirouetted, lifted his right hand from the tome, and pointed his forefinger at the Ogre’s corpse. The finger, I noticed, was indeed rosy. A bolt of something like wine-colored lightning sprang from the fingertip and smote the dead monster in the chest.

“Yuch!” squealed Jenny and Angela. Pieces of Ogre were splattered all over the grotto.

“That’s great, Zulkeh,” growled Greyboar, wiping a fragment of grue from his face. “You just killed a dead Ogre.”