Die By The Sword

  ***

  There were only three sentries that night, and they all had been drinking.

  “You’re joking, Grik,” said a skinny one.

  “I’ll tell you the rest when I get back,” said Grik, the thickset soldier, walking to the privy shed.

  “Can you believe that?” said the skinny man to the older one, “This Torthan must have gone mad in that dungeon. Those dogs are the gentlest beasts I’ve ever seen. They wouldn’t hurt a child if the child poked their eyes out.”

  “Well, you’ve got to remember the old reign,” said the older man, “Back then, they bred dogs to hurt people. I’m not surprised the poor fellow got worked up. I wager he lost friends to those beasts.”

  “Did you hear something?”

  “Oh, yes. Grik always makes too much noise when he’s in the privy.”

  “I can’t argue with that. Shut up in there, Grik! Now, this Torthan. It sounds like he did have a horrible time. I’m glad he got out.”

  “So am I. We should visit him sometime, wherever he winds up living. He could tell us more about those days.”

  “I’d welcome that,” said the skinny man as Grik fell out of the privy, “Captain never says anything about what happened back then.”

  “Say, Grik, are you alright?” said the older man, walking to where Grik had fallen over.

  The skinny man stood up to follow him, until a hand came out of the darkness and smothered him. The older man heard nothing, but he got alarmed when he came to Grik, who still had not moved. The older man moved to shut the privy door, holding his nose. As he touched the door, he let go of his nose and stared. The privy hole had been widened!

  Before he noticed the marks on Grik’s throat, his own neck screamed with pain.