Gorgoroth (Haladras #2)

TWENTY-SIX

Skylar felt frozen to the spot. They'd come too late. He'd failed Grüny. The grumpy, quick-tempered, faithful captain of the Luna was dead. Dead at the hands of these monsters who delighted in death and bloodshed. Skylar's sorrow was quickly overtaken by a surge of anger. Hatred, like he never felt before. These people—the Tors—the enemy of his people. Never before had he felt such animosity against anyone. In that moment, though, all their sins came boiling over. His mother and sister, now Grüny.

His finger nails dug into the palms of his hands. Vengeance. He wanted vengeance—on the three malefactors defiling Grüny's body, on the Marquis du Rainarke and his eunuch for what they did to Kendyl, on Rajar Koon and all his servants, on Tanks and his dogs, on the whole accused planet of Gorgoroth.

A hand gripped Skylar's shoulder. Endrick, the last of his stalwart companions. What would he do if he lost Endrick? The strong hand gave him strength to subdue his anger. No amount of violence could right the wrongs done to his loved ones. Justice? He was not in any condition to level judgment. The best he could do was to try to prevent these men from further desecrating Grüny's body.

He took a resolute step forward. This caught the attention of one of the men. The pudgy man looked up from Grüny's body and blinked at Skylar and Endrick. He wiped his hands on the grease-stained apron about his waist. He looked like the head cook.

"Who are you two?" he demanded.

Skylar hesitated.

Endrick stepped forward quickly.

"We brought a delivery," he said. "A couple barrels of mead."

He gestured behind him, where the cart full of mead sat waiting to be unloaded. The cook nodded his head curtly.

"Fine. You can unload it later." He waved them over. "Right now, you can help with this bloke. He's blasted heavy."

Endrick cast a sidelong glance at Skylar and drew out his mouth in mock contemplation.

"Ah, as you say, boss," replied Endrick, taking the lead and stride over to the table.

Skylar came up behind, less resolutely. It pained him to get closer to Grüny's body, to see more clearly his face, to imagine the pain he suffered before his death. Had the old ship captain cursed Skylar's name before he died?

"What we need to do," instructed the cook, "is get this lump of lard into that there roaster."

He pointed to the nearest wall, lined with an army of stoves and ovens. In the middle of all was a pot as tall as Skylar and as wide as three Grünys. Beneath the pot was an open flame and grill, which opened below the floor level. A pair of wooden ladders leaned against the pot, extending just above its open top, from which thick steam rose.

"The job would be easier," complained the cook, "if we could drain him first and cut him into smaller pieces. But no, master won't have it. Must be cooked whole, alive. Who cares the devil of a job it is to get it done."

"Alive?" said Endrick. "He looks dead to me."

"No, not dead—yet," chuckled the cook. "Soon enough. Just sedated, that's all. Otherwise, we'd never get 'em in there. Although it'd be mighty agreeable if he had just climbed himself up that ladder and plopped inside."

Not dead!

Skylar could scarcely believe it. Even as he heard the words, his brain struggled to make sense of them. He reached out and timidly touched Grüny's arm lightly. The skin felt warm, not cold like a corpse. He could have just recently been killed though. His eyes flicked to Grüny's bare chest. At first he saw no movement. Then he detected a subtle movement. He kept watching to be sure he hadn't imagined it. Then he saw it again. The unmistakable heave of a living person's chest—faint, but very real. Skylar felt like crying for joy.