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It had been good fun watching them dice and slice that putrid human bag of flesh they'd caught, but the dogmen'd let the fun get out of hand. Now the dough-fleshed human was dead and the Squire was teaching them a lesson. Their boss, His Most Worshipful Knees as the goblins called the giant, might not want them taught so permanently, thought Halftooth, but that would be the Squire's business.
He eyed the one dogman lying in a heap in the corner. The Squire'd snapped its spine, breaking it over his knee, before throwing it against the wall. The others had fled.
then booted it aside.
"Outta the way, worm." he laughed, then reached out and grabbed another of the little mites by a notched ear, lifted it up in a torrent of squeals and flung it out of his way as well.
Splittoe and Threefinger were ahead of him, already standing in the door. There was a crash from outside, the Squire getting a little rough with the dogmen no doubt.
"Make room." Halftooth said good-naturedly giving Splittoe a hard punch in the shoulder.
"Squire's in form." Splittoe said and moved aside to let Halftooth step forward.
"Look'at the dog twitch." Threefinger pointed at the body of the gnoll convulsing on the porch.
Halftooth gave a laugh, then glanced over to the Squire. The ogre had smashed the porch stairs and stepped over to where the other dogman was standing. It was whining away, true to its nature, frozen in place.
"Dog ain't got no sense." Splittoe said. "I'd run."
"You always run." Threefinger laughed.
All three of the orc halfbreeds stepped out onto the porch of the abandoned manorhouse to watch the Squire finish off the last mangy gnoll.
* * *
The Squire's chest heaved, sending a stream of blood from around the razor-edges of the knife blade buried in its chest. The club, its ironbound head sheared away by Ragnar's axe, was in its hand. For a moment the ogre stared at the useless weapon, then with a growl of disgust threw it aside. It would tear apart this strange man with its bare hands.
* * *
The night air was cold and the misty fog was turning to frost. Halftooth's breath steamed out in front him like a dragons exhalation. He was enjoying the spectacle and by the sound of the Squire's laugh he was not alone.
There was a shout. The sound pulled Halftooth's eye away from the Squire as he taunted the helpless dogman. As he turned to see what had made the noise, his jaw fell open in surprise. From out of the fog-shrouded yard a man was running toward them, covering the intervening space in great leaping strides.
The Squire had crushed the dogman's skull, smashing it like overripe fruit under a smith's hammer. The man was still coming on, closing the distance with alarming speed. Halftooth reached for his sword and cursing he realized it was not at his belt. Like an untried pup he had walked away from his weapon. He was unarmed, even his knife was not at hand but planted in a haunch of meat by the fire. He turned, even as the Squire launched the gnoll's body toward the onrushing man, and squeezed back into the house.
* * *
A roar escaped from the ogre. It sprang at Ragnar, arms outstretched, ready to rend him with its jagged nails. Ragnar sprang as well. He passed between the spread arms of the ogre and grabbed for the dagger hilt sticking from its chest.
The leather wrappings felt tacky in his hand, coated with the blood from the ogre's wound. With all his strength he drew the blade aside, cutting into the thick hairy flesh like a butcher carving a side of beef.
Sunk deep between the broad, sturdy ribs in the ogre's chest, the knife had pierced its thick hide and pricked the lung beneath. A bloody froth foamed from the slash and a red stream poured out. This was a wound the ogre felt not like the desperate scratches from the human's fingers.
The ogre roared again, but now it was a cry filled with anger, outrage and pain. With trunklike arms it sought to squeeze the life from this man, but Ragnar was having none of it.
As the ogre's grasp tightened about him, Ragnar stabbed the knife into the fleshy belly of the beast. The ogre's own strength forced the blade deep. Ragnar pulled up until the blade reached the breastbone, pushed it in till his hand was in the ogre's chest up to his wrist.
The beast could take no more. Its voice was filled with blood and it gave a wet, strangled cry. Instead of pulling the man toward him to crush out his life, now it sought to tear the cursed human from its wounded body.
The burning pain inside the monster's chest sapped its strength away like ice on a warm, spring day. The weight of its limbs seemed to drag it down, muscles turning to lead as its life began to fade. In desperation it clawed and clutched, bunching the steel rings of Ragnar's mail shirt into tight clumps. Drawing on its anger, which flared stronger than any pain, the ogre peeled Ragnar aside and flung him away, as far as it could manage. Ragnar slashed at its chest and arms and then the air.
* * *
(To Be Continued)