One of the ogres tried to climb to its feet, but Nadi slashed it across the face. The beast collapsed, grabbing at its nose and roaring. At least a dozen tunnel goblins screeched and ran around the room, caroming off the walls like popping corn, but didn’t move to attack us. The overwhelming scent of what I assumed was burned ogre flesh hung heavy in the air, and it was all I could do not to vomit. I quickly tied my hair behind my head, just in case—getting puke smell out of luxurious hair like mine takes forever.
The minotaur, however, did make a move to attack, as did the other ogre, who was not as badly burned as his companion. Rummy valiantly tried to strike the ogre, but ended up getting clobbered by its club and fell straight backward, his head hitting the ground hard and his legs flopping up into the air. The way his legs remained up in the air, twitching slightly, would have been comical had he been on the stage overacting a dramatic death; given that he was, however, in the midst of a life-or-death fight and no longer appeared to be conscious, it was terrifying.
Nadi moved to help, but the minotaur cut her off, snorting and holding a huge, double-bladed axe in its right hand. It slapped the middle part of the handle into its left hand and then swung with both hands, a violent swing that, had it connected, would have not only separated her head from her body, but likely pulverized it in the process. Fortunately, it didn’t, Nadi having deftly ducked under the swing and rolled through the minotaur’s legs, coming up behind it. She raised her sword to swing, but blanched and fell back, coughing. I wondered if the scent of barbecued ogre had overcome her.
Borg stepped closer to the minotaur, though I wasn’t sure even his rocky skin would protect him much if the minotaur hit him full force. Borg seemed a little uncertain, too, judging by the way he held his club up in a defensive posture.
I could hear Whiska muttering behind me, preparing another spell, though she had to break off to shout, “Get out of the way, you pebble-brained paperweight!” in what for Whiska was a very kind effort to suggest that her companion remove himself from the line of fire.
Borg nodded, but had to stand in and deflect, at least partially, two blows from the minotaur’s axe before he could move. Both strikes grazed Borg’s skin, with the second shaving off a thin slice that clattered to the floor. I winced, though Borg didn’t show any outward sign of pain.
He stepped to the side and Whiska, who had resumed her muttering, stepped forward and yelled, “Eat hot lightning, burger lips!” as she unleashed a bolt of energy from her staff.
The minotaur’s muscles seized and he stiffened, making him look like a giant stuffed statue. The effect didn’t last long, though. In a matter of seconds, the great beast shook its gargantuan head, its massive lips flapping like an angry donkey’s. The minotaur snarled and raised its axe over its head, muscles rippling, and I stepped backward, overwhelmed by two thoughts: the first being that we were probably screwed, and the second that minotaurs are sort of hot in a scary and gross kind of way.
Nadi had managed to work her way around to Rummy, but the remaining ogre had turned its attention to her. I drew my knife and moved to intercept the big ugly brute, but stumbled to my knees as I passed by the minotaur, overcome with an odor that can only be described as flaming feces mated with rancid dead possum flesh. I covered my nose and kept going, surprised that Whiska’s energy bolt had so badly singed the minotaur as to create such an ungodly stench.
The ogre’s reaction to my valiant attempt to prevent it from getting to Nadi was about the same as my reaction to most guys hitting on me after a performance: a derisive snort, a dismissive wave of the hand, and then an immediate focus on what’s for dinner (I could only hope that, in this case, I wasn’t on the menu). It didn’t even feel the need to turn its club on me, choosing instead to raise its hand to backhand me into the wall—and in all likelihood, unconsciousness.
Fortunately, I’m as quick as I am skilled at singing, and I managed to duck underneath the blow, though it passed by so closely that the hair on the left side of my head streamed behind me like it had been hit with a stiff breeze. I countered with a knife strike to the knee, one of my two primary go-to moves (my secondary move, really, which I had to go with because the ogre’s pelvis was turned at an angle that precluded my primary and preferred target).
In the next ten seconds, I learned two important facts: one, even relatively small blades like mine can cause ogres some serious pain, and two, ogres get really mad when you cause them serious pain. The creature reached down, grabbed me by the shoulders, and tossed me toward the wall; only my uncanny agility saved me (well, that, and my unbelievable luck, given that the ogre threw me into a section of the wall covered by spongy lichen, which cushioned the impact). Fortunately, I managed to hold onto my knife in the process, though I did accidentally nick my thigh when I landed. It was embarrassing to have first blood drawn by myself.
As I recovered from a wound that, in my later recounting of the event, was both considerably more serious and inflicted by a demon from the fourth level of Halazar, Nadi knelt next to Rummy and shook him gently. His legs fell back down, making him look slightly less ridiculous (he still looked a little ridiculous, because half-dwarves, half-halflings are just generally ridiculous-looking beings). He was out cold, though, so Nadi rolled him out of the way the best she could and sprang back to her feet, just in time to see the minotaur bring his axe down on Borg’s club.
So much for that club. I didn’t think it was possible for wood to explode, but I can now say with certainty that it can, and splinters in the eyes are about as much fun as hookworms in the urethra (don’t ask how I know that). Fortunately, the club absorbed the brunt of the shock and Borg seemed none the worse for wear, though he did look a little stunned and, for the first time since I’d known him, worried. He staggered back as Whiska circled around the perimeter and seemed unsure exactly how to attack the monster.
“Whiska!” I yelled, hoping to snap her out of it and at least narrow her focus. “The ogre!”
She looked confused for a moment, but then nodded vigorously and raised her staff. After a few magical words, a steady stream of magical darts sprang forth, striking the ogre in the chest and knocking it backward.
Nadi waded in and seized the opportunity to strike, driving her sword into the creature’s neck as it swatted frantically at its chest in an attempt to soothe the stinging pain from the darts. The ogre became considerably, and rightly, more concerned with the giant blade that had just severed its jugular, lunging weakly at Nadi as she drew the blade back. Blood spurted like fireworks from the beast’s neck and it collapsed to its knees before falling face-down on the floor, feet flopping up in the air one time before coming to rest on the stony floor.
The ogre’s death seemed to terrify the tunnel goblins, who streamed past us and fled the chamber, leaving the four conscious (but weakened) members of our band to face one very angry minotaur.
“Drop your weapon and surrender and we won’t kill you,” said Nadi boldly.
The minotaur stared at Nadi and grunted. A low rumbling filled the cavern.
Whiska, now standing next to the unarmed Borg, gagged and hacked. She looked up at the giant, lips curled. “Gods, man! What did you eat—a sick baby’s diaper?”
So overpowering was the stench that even Rummy, still unconscious, coughed.