He had no idea what to do. Should he charge off through the forest, naked and vulnerable, to search for his companions, or should he go back to Wichsault, defeated?
He scowled at the thought of returning a failure. Standing there unclothed, he would have to admit to trading his companions and the fate of the castle and its inhabitants for a day of passion with a goddess whom he incidentally killed. He’d be a laughingstock, at least until the castle crumpled to dust, and he’d be blamed for that too.
Torn with indecision, Goron paced the river’s edge until he spotted his clothes and armour hanging on the tree branch where he’d left them. He waded out and retrieved them. It appeared his mind had been made up for him. He’d try to find Morwen and Caroc. And if he found them, he certainly wouldn’t be telling them the truth.
Goron was no tracker, but he knew Caroc was following the river to the toadoks’ camp. He’d do the same. He stuffed the few remaining items back in his pack and set off.
The journey back to the toadoks’ village took longer than Caroc had expected. His transport suffered several cases of severe indigestion, and Caroc was vomited up only to be reswallowed. The third time he was relieved, whatever the outcome might be, to be regurgitated at the chief’s feet. He’d grown fatter since Caroc last saw him. His diet wasn’t working for him. He was seated on a ruinwood chair polished to a black gloss; his chin rested on his gigantic, swollen belly.
The chieftess was at his side. She’d dressed for the occasion in a white, stained linen dress, stolen from a farm or the castle, instead of her usual drab flax attire. In addition to the yellow stains, the garment was threadbare and displayed all the assets that had secured her spot at the chief’s side. She was heavily made up. The cosmetics had been applied with doubtful finesse, as if she had dragged an artist’s palette across her leathery skin.
The chief, Thok, let out a series of grunts and scratched his scaly head. He was in the grips of some all-consuming dilemma. “Feast,” he announced. “Boil them all.”
This was welcome news. The chief was off his diet, and they would be spared the agony of being flayed alive before they were eaten.
“Remember your diet,” the chieftess chimed in.
If Caroc could have cursed her, he would have.
The chief went back to his thoughtful pose. “Skin ‘em, and no butter in the sauce,” he sighed.
“The woman was carrying this,” a toadok guard said laying the staff reverently at the chief’s feet.
The chieftess wobbled over to it, tried to bend to reach it, and gave up. “Give it to me,” she ordered. The guard, younger and more agile, lifted up the staff and passed it to her.
She spat on the onyx and rubbed it with her filthy dress until it shone like a black star. She paraded around the tent to the cheers of the guards and chief. If ever she found out what power she held in her hand, Caroc knew Wichsault’s doom would be sealed.
The toadok guards ushered them outside, and as they ducked under the tent flap Thok called out, “On second thoughts keep the butter.”
The butcher’s tent was as hot and stifling as a glasshouse. In the centre stood a table so blood-splattered Caroc thought at first it was painted red. A variety of skinned and dismembered animals dripped their remaining fluids from racks ranged around the perimeter onto the offal-strewn floor. Squirming through the medley were maggots as large as eels.
The guards dumped them into this carrion stew.
“What have we got here?” the butcher asked. He had an unusually large head and a single cloudy eye. The other had been gouged out leaving a festering wound that oozed a custard-like fluid.
“Two humans and some kind of demon, he’s small and plump, should make good eating. The chief wants ‘em all skinned and walked to the pot,” one of the guards replied holding his hand to his mouth. Caroc wasn’t the only one appalled at the stench. The butcher grinned at the request and ran his hand along an assortment of blades that hung on a belt around his waist. He pulled out a thin, curved knife with a hook on the end.
Caroc realised with a stab of guilt Nessa had been in this very tent, alone, subjected to the cruelty of this sadist. Now he’d brought another innocent woman to him.
“Never skinned a demon before,” the butcher said sloshing his way over to his three victims.
He stooped and ran his thick, calloused hands over the three captives to decide which was the most demonic. Caroc realised the butcher’s remaining eye was useless.
The butcher went to work, cutting and pulling. He was a master. Szat’s skin came off in one piece. Caroc had tried that with an apple once but had not had any success.
The demon looked unchanged without his blister-red epidermis. The butcher slung the skin over a rack to dry like washed laundry and hauled Morwen onto the table.
Caroc strained against his immobility. He desperately wanted to save Morwen from a fate like Nessa’s, but all he could do was form his mouth into a grimace and make a low growling sound.
The butcher cut off the warlock’s robe.
Caroc didn’t think it appropriate, but he couldn’t help but marvel at Morwen’s toned physique. Her creamy skin was flawless, marred only by her many scars. He would never have guessed such a beautiful body pulsed beneath her robe.
The butcher made an incision below Morwen’s clavicle. “Such soft skin,” the butcher said pausing to stroke it. “It will make a wonderful negligee for the chieftess.” The blood dribbled down between Morwen’s breasts and
