My Second Life Is A Heroic Power Fantasy - Chapter 189

Rawgh’faz sat on his throne, leaning back and sneering down at the captain in front of him with derision as his pink tongue flicked hungrily across his teeth.

“I expect an explanation, Frang’gar. I suggest you make it a convincing one.” He snarled.

Frang’gar flinched and bowed lower.

“Chieftain, the approaching party was more… capable than we expected. They were through our line before we had the time to formulate a proper counter-attack.” The captain said, his voice quivering.

He was not a small dogkin, standing a head and shoulders above most of his peers, but in the shadow of the beast on the throne, he looked frighteningly small.

Rawgh’faz leaned forwards, the claws on the ends of his free hand tearing shavings out of the wooden handrest as he lifted his staff out of his lap.

“Tell me. How is it that the best fighter under my command, a tactician revered amongst our kin, can fail to predict the obvious display of power from an enemy I warned you could be coming? How does a dog of your cunning make such a mistake, Frang’gar?” He asked.

Frang’gar raised his eyes to meet Rawgh’faz’s for the first time, but blanched and jerked his gaze back to the ground when he saw the look on the chieftain’s face.

“It was believed by our scouts that the individual you were referring to was slain in our raid in Darkshire Woods. Saml’san was seen delivering a deathblow to the boy before he was slain. We had no reason to believe otherwise until now.” The captain said, his voice quavering.

“Demethros has warned that a champion would be coming that would possess powers similar unto his own. Powers that include the ability to recover from wounds that would have slain even the strongest among us. I believe it is possible that the champion he was describing is leading the raid that just made a mockery of your defensive planning. And had you bothered to have any foresight, you might have predicted him and planned accordingly.” Rawgh’faz said.

The shaman stood from the throne, and walked the few steps down the dais to stand in front of the supplicating warrior.

“Straighten up, whelp.” He growled, tapping the end of his staff forcefully against the ground.

Frang’gar took a ragged breath and straightened up, mustering what resolve he could as he met Rawgh’faz’s eyes again. The shaman stood nearly a foot taller than even this giant among gnolls, and his gaze bored into Frang’gar’s so intensely that the dogman felt his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. After what seemed like an endless moment, The shaman spoke again.

“Your time leading our tribe’s forces is at an end. It is time that I take things over directly.” He said, the softness of his voice causing the hair on the back of Frang’gar’s neck to stand on end.

Frang’gar swallowed, and nodded.

“Yes, chieftain. But what, may I ask, would you have me do now?” He asked.

Rawgh’faz’s lip twitched almost imperceptibly, before he bared his teeth in a vicious grin. He reached out and placed his hand heavily on the small dogman’s shoulder.

“Fear not, captain. I have a very special use for you.” He said.

He raised his staff over his head and began to howl out a rhythmic mantra, his eyes flickering with light and sinister purpose as the sound of a myriad of other spectral voices joined him in chorus.

Frang’gar’s eyes widened in horror, and he tried to pull away and run, but the shaman’s grip was as hard and unmoving as iron, and even in spite of his immense strength he couldn’t seem to get away. Then something jerked inside him, like a child had been implanted inside his body. Then a sudden, overwhelming pain as every fiber in his body began to tear and stretch and distort, until at some point it all faded into a blur, and his sense of self vanished into the horror he was becoming.

Rawgh’faz watched the transformation with a sense of satisfaction as the captain writed and groaned, his body becoming an increasingly distorted collection of limbs and angles. The Forbidden that was taking the captain’s body for its own had not come cheap. Demethros was not one to give boons or favors lightly, or without expectations. This one had cost him dearly, and until this moment he’d never had a purpose for its use, nor an adequate vessel for it to inhabit.

But the coming champion changed that. There would be no conserving resources. The boy would have to die.

And he would have to die now.

The completed Forbidden loomed over him now, its large glassy eye eering at him balefully as it awaited instructions. The shaman pointed towards the throne room doors.

“Kill anyone who is not one of us. Make it as merciless as possible.”