unearthly flame danced across the cavern ceiling, bathing it
in a flickering glow, the natural sepia of the stone awash in
a bronzed haze.
The half-orc bent his head toward the island. The
creature was down on one knee.
“I must have more,” he heard it moan, and once
again an alien tendril of thought entered his mind, probed
it.
Ping. We will beat her like we beat you, Moleshit!
Wank was trussed up on the floor of his sire’s own
cave. A dozen of his broodmates stood over him. Poked
him. Kicked him. Not one of the little beasts stood threefoot-tall
yet, but they were a seething mass of young
bravado. His mother stepped between, swatted at the little
bastards with one fragile hand. Too slow. Too weak. They
ducked and swerved, swiped at her legs, thighs and
buttocks with sticks and crops. She fell. Wank gasped and
was picked up and trundled off as if a boar. Rahsik-ba did
not move from his pot of greasy stew at the fire, lent
barely a glance at the whole proceeding.
Wank heard another gasp, and the pain in his skull
dulled momentarily. He gazed again toward the island and
saw the creature, now on all fours, move to sitting.
“Take it all,” the half-orc moaned. A spark of
madness flickered to life in his mind, and memories he had
always kept buried began to bubble up through the cracks
of his sanity.
72