History's Least Successful Skaven Invasions

The dreaded Under Empire has long terrorized the surface dwellers of the Warhammer World with seeming impunity.  Many consider the Grey Tide to be unstoppable, but the truth is that for every famous victory, the Skaven Horde suffers several ignominious defeats.  Their primary tactic of appearing from tunnels without warning can, at times, be a weakness.

Spawning of Bob presents: HISTORY'S LEAST SKAVEN INVASIONS:

Quetza, Lustria C 100

Xahutec, Lustria C 1634

Los'tmabo'tl, Lustria C 435

Karak Hirn, Black Mountains C 2521

Mountains of Mourn C 2523


Geonosis BBY 29

Jerusalem AD 33

Mordor TA 3019

Yavin BBY 0

The Realm of Chaos (time has no meaning here)


Alaskalustria Before 6am

Nehekhara C -1151

Isle of Man AD 2013

Italy AD 1350

Davy Jones's Locker AD 1723

Minecraft - All day long at Bob's place

Fukushima AD 2011

Anywhere in Australustria AD 2010 -

Alaskalustria 6:02 am

Misty Mountains  TA 2941

World's Edge Mountains  C -1543

Helm's Deep  TA 3019

Philadelphia  AD 1978

Realm of Chaos  - Thursday Nights

Helm's Deep  TA 3019

North Atlantic Ocean  AD 1912

ADSF 2,3  and 6

Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  AD 1992

Temple City Malodorex  C 1412

Lustria Online AD 2013

Lustria Online  AD 2013

The False Moon War: Chapter 19

to Title and Contents

Chapter 19.  The Mountains of Mourn

Scalenex had become unofficial leader of the freshly spawned Dyslexians.  His first act had been to index the extensive library of plaques that he had found in the pyramid vault.  New spawnlings flocked to his tactica index to develop their combat readiness.

Rychek had taken council with Scalenex about their planned route.  The two skinks agreed that the party should take a south easterly heading to intercept the ogre's trail.  This would occur regardless of whether the war band had continued east, or if it had veered north again after bypassing Victor's domain.

Bessie and her riders were accompanied for the next leg of their journey by a troop of Dyslexic Chameloen skniks who had been provided by Scalenex.  The nearly invisible escorts ranged far ahead seeking signs of the ogre warband.

After some days of travel, one of their guides materialized unexpectedly with a chip of rhinox dung clenched in his claw.  He chirped excitedly and beckoned.  The ogres had indeed turned north again, but the pursuers had lost many days.

Rychek saluted the escort with a raised crest.  Bob and Joe roared, and Mahtis beat his breast with rocklike fists.  In return the chameloen displayed a cascade of bright colours on his scaly flanks.

After the scout had ghosted away Bob observed croakily, "I know we've been making a special effort with non verbal signs of communication, but those guys just outclass us."

Mahtis nodded and rubbed his bruised chest.

The ogre trail eventually led them to the mouth of the Pass to the East.

***

Atop the wall which controlled the eastern border of the realm, ogre guard number one shielded his eyes against the ruddy light of the setting sun.  "Is that a thundertusk?  I didn't think any 'unters were out."

Ogre guard number two squinted.  "Funny looking for a tusk."

When the monster came within hailing distance he bellowed, "Who goes there?  Friend or food?"

One of the monster riders dismounted and scurried forwards, "Friend!  Friend!"  he cried holding up empty, blue scaly claws.

Guard number two leaned over to his colleague and asked in a low voice,  " 'Ave we changed the password recently?"

Guard number one scratched three of his stubbly chins.  "No.  I fink it's still, ‘It's me, you gormless 'alfwit!  Open the gate!’.”

"So 'E must be food."

" 'E's not very big.  Just a snack...."

"Maybe a hors d'oeuvre?"

Guard number one shuddered.  "Oh, I don't like 'orse doovers!  Not unless the rest of the 'orse is still attached.  Call the duty captain.  Let 'im deal with it."

He kept a jaundiced eye on the visitors as guard number two tromped down the stairs.  The messenger returned minute later with the iron gut captain of the watch.

The captain absently scratched a livid scar below his empty eye socket with an iron hook.  "That 'orse doover looks a lot like the lucky chef.  The two warriors remind me of some statues I saw in Lustria.  The big un might be an 'andful, and I don't like the look of that monster.  Give me a minute to get the lads, then open the teeth.”

The iron toothed portcullis soon creaked open and swallowed Bessie and her riders.  In the courtyard beyond they were greeted by a score of very efficient looking ironguts.

Rychek cleared his throat.  "We are but poor lost circus performers......"

The ogre leader held up a hook.  "Not my concern.  To the kitchen with you."

Joe gulped.  "This is not promising...."

***

Any thoughts of fighting their way clear soon evaporated.  The ogres were well disciplined, well armed and in peak physical condition.  Their escape was barred by the iron teeth of the gate.  These ironguts were very obviously elites.  Every other ogre the fellowship saw were scrawny and sickly in comparison.

The captain was obviously a veteran of many campaigns.  He certainly had no fear of the lizardmen as he clambered aboard the howdah to take the load off his wooden legs.  The lizards were guarded in their responses to his questions, but he did establish that they had travelled long and far on some kind of quest.

He sighed.  "I used to be an adventurer like you, until I took a chopstick to the eye, some flames to the feet, a shark to the 'and, and an 'ook to ear."

"What happened to your nose?" enquired Joe innocently.

The guard captain winced.  "Don't ask."

***

High Chef Caneghem revolutionized the cuisine of House Welhung, but none of his morsels tempted Hellun.  The entire household was tense and wary as her constitution steadily failed.

At least the skink priest had free access to his lord.  The Slann had been accepted as a welcome addition to the kitchen.  The stegadon horns which embellished his palanquin were useful to hang wet tea towels on.

The skink would occasionally attempt to rouse the slann by speaking to him, but Taisteslaikch'ken continued his contemplations.  Caneghem couldn't shake his lord awake because of the clashing auras of the geomantic web and the Pendant of Khaeleth, and he would not remove the talisman for an instant.

The Swedian Chef had unexpectedly announced his retirement from high office the day after Caneghem's arrival.  He made his incomprehensible speech of succession with Rodekhil Offaleater standing just behind him sharpening a flensing knife.

The Swedian remained on Caneghem's staff, but seemed to somehow resent his new High Chef.  At about the same time, a series of mishaps began.

Although an upturned cauldron or a carelessly flung meat cleaver could be easily understood in the bustle of the busy kitchen, the falling piano was hard to explain.  Caneghem resolved to keep the pendant on, just in case someone meant him harm.

He needed to stay alive, ready to serve his lord when he awoke.

***

He was surprised and pleased when the familiar misshapen figure of his fellow traveller, Argsplat the Irongut, stumped into the kitchen.

"Oi, Lucky Chef.  I've brought some strangers to see you."

Caneghem narrowed his eyes,  "Who are they?  What do they want?"

"I dunno.  One of them says 'e comes from 'Where folks know what picante sauce should taste like'...."

Caneghem almost knocked Argsplat off his pegs in his haste greet his compatriots.

***

The skink priests of Lustria rarely mingled with the beast class skinks and kroxigors, although Caneghem had a vague recollection of Rychek and Mahtis.  Bob and Joe he knew by reputation.  He was careful to stand as far away from the pair as possible just in case they somehow managed to cause a mishap and destroy his kitchen.

The questers were awestruck to be in the presence of their lord Taisteslaikch'ken.  They had never heard him speak, or seen him up close before.  They had, however, seen his incredible sorcerous power unleashed in battle, and seen the bloody, smoking aftermath.  They bowed low before his floating throne.

After an uncomfortable period of silence Joe stretched his aching back. 

"Now that we've rescued him, what should we do?"  he asked Caneghem, who was lounging against the palanquin.

"Rescued him?  Our lord doesn't need rescuing.  He is quite content with the current situation."

"Content?  He's been kidnapped and dragged halfway across the world against his will and subjected to uncounted perils."

Caneghem snorted.  "You've never seen him extend his power like I have.  If there had been any real threat to himself or the Great Plan, he would have reacted decisively."

"How?  He is asleep."

"No,"  Caneghem shook his head.  "Not asleep.  He is just...elsewhere.  Wherever his will is now, and whatever he is doing, I would say it is all going pretty well."

Taisteslaikch'ken's face indeed shone with smug contentedness.

The tall doors of the chamber suddenly crashed open.  The imposing figure of Welhung Thunderloin stood framed in the doorway, with the faithful Rodekhil a pace behind him.

"You.  Chef.  You are a wizard of your people?"

Caneghem bowed,  "Yes, I am."

"You 'ave access to knowledge that is 'idden from others?"

"Well....  I have picked up a bit here and there..."  Caneghem began modestly.

"You 'ave studied the cycles of life and nature?"

"Indeed I have."  The skink priest bowed again.

"Then you are an expert on reproduction and pregnancy?"

Caneghem's jaw dropped.  He stammered inaudibly.

"Are you?"  Welhung was clearly upset, and not inclined to patience.

Joe stepped in for the priest.  "Of course he is!  In fact we are all experts in rear-projection!"

Welhung glowered at him.  He seemed unconvinced.

"... and Bob here...why!  He was pregnant just last week!"

Bob beamed and waved at the ogre tyrant.

"You, Chef.  Come.  And bring your midwives."  Welhung span on his heel and stomped out of the room.

"Well, that's lucky!  Still on his good side.  What's reproduction, Caneghem?"  asked Joe.

Caneghem looked sick.  He whispered where Joe's ear should have been.  Joes lidless eyes grew large.

"Where do they incubate the eggs?"

Caneghem whispered again.

Joes eyes went from large to plate sized.  "Warm bloods are SO disgusting!"

" 'Urry up!"  a thunderous voice bellowed from the doorway.

***

In the weeks since returning to his homeland, Welhung had watched his people growing weaker.  Even his voracious children were not thriving as they should.  They should have been devouring everything that they could lay hands on, but they had become fussy eaters.

Hellun was worst hit.  She would barely eat, and the child which grew inside her sapped her strength like a parasite.  Welhung was worried sick.

The five lizards had to scurry to keep up with the ogres' purposeful strides.  Presently, he arrived at their destination with the panting reptiles in his wake.  Welhung and Rodekhil crossed their bellies in the traditional "M" shape which reflected the elegant golden arches of the building before them.

They were at the Shrine of the Great Maw.

The ogres strode confidently past the butchers and lesser priests of the Great Maw and entered the chamber of sacrifice.  The pit of sacrifice, in the centre of the room, was a fang lined representation of the bottomless Maw.

At its edge he found the High Slaughtermaster, Ironjaw Censor-Bearer.  Ironjaw was well named.  His lower jaw was indeed a wrought from iron, complete with blade like teeth.  His current appearance was daunting, but in fact, prior to his extensive orthodontic work his protruding fangs were far more sinister.  The absence of lips on his metal jaw made him a very messy eater, and he wore a food spattered apron which trailed to the floor.

When Ironjaw realized that it was Welhung who had burst in on his contemplations, he sighed and rolled his eyes.  "I'm not sure 'ow many other ways I can explain this, my lad, but I will try again."  He cleared his throat dramatically.  "It's like the bees and the flowers.  When a daddy ogre likes a mummy ogre very much they....."

Welhung held up his meaty hand and cut the explanation mercifully short.  "That's not why I'm 'ere this time.  What is wrong with all the ogres?"

Ironjaw's great shoulders slumped.  "You mean the Malaise.  It began 'alf a year ago, and with every full of the Chaos Moon it grows worse.  Surely you felt it, wherever you were."

Welhung patted his belly gently.  "When Morrslieb is full, my stomach churns."

"Yes.  It is the same 'ere.  Each month it gets worse.  Our people have lost their appetite.  We weaken."

"My ogres are still strong...."

"I don't know why they've eaten so well.  'Ave you been given unusually tasty food?"

Welhung graced the Lucky Chef with a grateful nod before continuing his interrogation.  "My wife, Hellun, is weaker than the others.  Why?"

"She is with child.  She withers from the influence of the Chaos Moon, and her babe devours 'er from inside.  They will not last long."

"Then I must make the natal sacrifice!  It is a little early, but..."

Ironjaw held up his hands to hush the tyrant.  "The Maw no longer accepts our sacrifices.  'E 'as abandoned this temple."

"What?  I don't believe it!"

"Let me show you."  Ironjaw turned and bellowed at his acolytes.  "Bring the Persian!"

A gold cloaked, dark skinned human was frogmarched in and placed in front of the pit of sacrifice.  He carried with him a string of crowned skulls.  His dark eyes flashed with arrogant hostility.

"This is madness!" he hissed.

"Madness?  No!  This....Is....Slaughter!"  Ironjaw placed his foot against the Persian's chest and shoved him into the pit.

"Aieeeee!......"  the Persian's voice trailed away to nothing.  A moment later he called,  "That was really irresponsible!  I could have sprained my ankle!"

The Persian poked his head up at the edge of the pit only to have Ironjaw absently stomp on it.  "Hey!"  he protested, but he kept his head down.

Bob trundled over to examine the pit of sacrifice.  "A better sacrifice, maybe?  Of noble blood?" 

"Hey!  I'm totally of royal blood!  Do you take me for some common yokel?"    Bob stamped on the Persian's fingers which were curled over the edge of the shaft.  "Owww!....."  The voice trailed away again.

"Why not go to the Maw itself?" asked Joe.

The ogres gasped. 

"It won't accept sacrifices here, but surely it wouldn't reject something put directly into its mouth."

"We ogres do not often go to the Great Maw,"  Ironjaw explained slowly,  " 'Is hunger is to be...respected.  Preferably from a distance."

"It could work.  If you went to the Maw with a really good sacrifice, like a battle standard bearer, or a powerful general, or wizard, or something," Bob mused.

Rychek was doing throat cutting gestures to shut him up.

"Or all three!"  Joe chimed in.  Rychek's face palm echoed through the large chamber.

Welhung snapped his fingers.  "Yes!  I will take that slann frog and jam it down the Maw's gullet, and I will hold it there until he accepts it!"

He was reenergised.  "Rodekhil, harness a rhinox!  Get Argsplat to muster the ironguts!  You, Chef!"  He jabbed a finger at Caneghem.  "It is an arduous journey.  Organize your midwives and kitchen supplies.  We leave at dawn."

to Chapter 20: The Great Maw

The False Moon War: Chapter 18

to Title and Contents

Chapter 18.  The Mountains of Mourn

After the defeat of the dark fleet, the Maw's Jaws sailed uneventfully slipped uneventfully to the east of Ulthuan on her way to the Northern Great Ocean.

Although Welhung Thunderloin had succeeded in his primary mission, the acquisition of the slann for his wife, Hellun, it was considered bad luck and poor economics for an ogre ship to return to port with an empty hold.  Hellun would not give birth until a sacrifice was made to the Great Maw.  Welhung's harried kitchen staff could attempt to satisfy her whims in the interim.

In the process of filling her cavernous hold the ogre vessel terrorized the islands and hinterland from Norsca to Araby.  The raiders would put ashore, ransack cheerfully and cast off again before effective resistance could be mounted.  One does not simply repel an ogre war party with anything less than an army.

By the time the Maw's Jaws groaned around Southlands Cape and entered the Sea of Dread, she was already wallowing low in the water.  After raiding her way up the coastline of Ind, she was close to going under.

The hardest part of the voyage was the passage of the Scalded Delta of the River Ruin.  The sluggish waters wound through shifting channels and stinking mats of grey reeds.  With such a convoluted route, and many false turns, it was impossible to make way under sail.  The crew had to pole the vessel along using her great sweeps.  Eventually they left the foetid marshes behind and made sail to Pigbarter.

To call Pigbarter a city, would have been to call a Skaven slave courageous.  The settlement was permanent, in the sense that its location did not change, but the inhabitants were in a constant state of flux.  No one claimed this armpit as home.  Certainly no one expended any effort on civic works or beautification projects.

Pigbarter straddled the River Ruin and the Southern Spice Route which linked the Old World with Ind, Grand Cathay and beyond.  The trading hub was nominally under the protection of the Ogre Kingdoms.  A mutually beneficial relationship had been established with the nomadic traders which rarely involved wholesale slaughter and looting.

For the Ogres, Pigbarter provided a market for their captured slaves and beasts, and a source of ceramics, silver and spices.  As long as the ogre crews had ready access to vast quantities of food and drink while their captains haggled, they rarely did more than smash up the dock area.

Welhung ordered the Maw's Jaws be dragged ashore and dry docked.  He converted the remnant of the Naggarothii captives into condiments and cheap tableware, and arranged hire of a number of large wagons to supplement his freight capacity.  He did not tarry, because his love awaited him in the broad pass between Fire Mouth volcano and Over-tyrant Golgfag's tribal lands, far to the north.

The River Ruin was navigable as far north as Greasus Goldtooth's kingdom, but the hazards of the river were legendary.  Whatever didn't eat you usually charged exorbitant taxes.  There was no way to sail past the cannons of Black Fortress without paying the steep toll.  Greasus himself would take a large slice of pie when travellers reached his holdings.

West of Pigbarter the caravan route curved sharply north to the Sentinels.  The inhabitants of this ancient fortress were as greedy as King Greasus and somewhat less trustworthy. 

Although not the fastest or easiest route, striking out across the Dark Lands presented a course with few significant natural barriers and no tolls.  An ogre force the size of Wellhung's had little to fear from the nomadic greenskins of that area, and the necromantic sorcerers and chaos dwarves tended not to move out of the territories they had established, and were thus easily avoided.

***

During the hard months of raiding the crew's attitude towards their Lucky Chef, Caneghem, went from grudging respect to adoration.  That he had saved the ship and crew from certain destruction was a secondary consideration.  It was what he could do in the kitchen which garnered their praise.

On the open sea, his culinary creativeness was hampered by seasickness and a monotonous supply of ingredients.  Whenever the Maw's Jaws made landfall, Caneghem shone.

Wherever the raiders camped, a palatial kitchen tent was set up.  The little skink was placed on a raised platform so that he could see over the brims of the huge pots that bubbled around him.  Swarms of gnoblar kitchen hands hung on his words, and scribes recorded them.  It seemed he could do no wrong.

An encounter in the citrus grove of a Bretonnian noble could have ended badly when glittering knights galloped into view.  This potential disaster was turned into gastronomic triumph with the creation of the recipe, Duke a l'Orange.

Later, the ogres crossed swords with an undead host north-east of Tilea.  The outcome was uncertain, because undead forces are very tough.  However, under Caneghem's inspiring leadership, the tenderizing blows of ogre clubs and three days of broiling, the ensuing Ghoulash was tender and delicious.

In similar fashion, the ogre's palates were enlivened by such delicacies as Chicken Kislev, Quiche Loren, Ghorgonzola, and Altdorf Salad.  This last recipe is similar to traditional green-skin salad, but it also contains Imperial Flagellants.  The nuts give it a delicious crunch.

***

Welhung's convoy eventually snaked its way out of the Dark Lands and ascended the unimaginatively named "Pass to the East" above the Lake of Eyes valley.  At a natural chokepoint the way was barred by a stone wall guarded by a garrison of ogre troops.

Welhung strode up to the bristling defences with his honour guard of Ironguts.  A stout warden shouted the traditional challenge, "Who goes there?  Friend or Food?"

Argsplat bellowed the traditional reply, "It's me, you gormless 'alfwit!  Open the gate!"

The iron bound portcullis creaked upwards and the caravan trundled through.  From his perch on Welhung's wain, Caneghem thought the yawning gate with its fringe of spikes looked ominously like a ravenous mouth.

Welhung and Argsplat watched the wagons rumble through the shadow of the gate.

"These ones are mine,"  the Irongut captain declared as he hooked a chest and large bag of loot from bed of the last wain.

"So, next raiding season?" Welhung enquired gruffly.

"Maybe not.  I'm thinking about retiring.  My Dam is needing more 'elp around the 'ouse, what with her not 'aving any arms or legs, and all."

The ogre tyrant clasped Argsplat's left wrist.  "Maw's blessings.  I'll get you transferred to the wall guards.  The ironguts 'ere could use some extra 'ands....sorry.  An extra 'and.  They look weak."

Welhung eyed the border guards critically.  They were looking thin.  Their hides hung slackly from their bones, and he fancied that he could see the occasional rib.  In comparison, the ogres of the war party were plump and in peak condition.

As the convoy rumbled further along the Path to the East, it dwindled in size as each raider took his share of plunder and drifted back to his home and family.  By the time Welhung halted in the courtyard of his large villa, he was left with a single overloaded wagon driven by his faithful lieutenant, Rodekhil Offaleater.  The young bull rhinox which drew the wagon stamped nervously as Rodekhil vaulted off the board and retreated twenty paces.

Welhung was finally home.  He tramped up to the door of his villa and flung wide the door.  " 'Ello?"  he called uncertainly.

There was a piercing squeal, "Daddy's 'ome!" followed by a stampede of heavy feet.  Welhung spread his arms wide to block the doorway and braced himself as his offspring thundered toward him.  Try as he might, he was unable to intercept a single child for a hug.  Like so many enormous greased piglets, the whole mob slipped past him and swarmed the wagon.

Shaking his head affectionately, the proud father mounted the stairs in search of his wife.  He entered a darkened chamber on the second floor.

"IS THAT YOU, CUPCAKE?"  Every crow and vulture within a league of the ear shredding voice took to the air in alarm as the sound reverberated around the mountains.  In the higher peaks, devastating avalanches were triggered.

Welhung threw open the curtains, located his beloved and squeezed her hand.  It felt weak and thin.   Despite her advanced pregnancy, it seemed that she had lost weight in the months since he had last seen her, and her voice seemed terribly weak.

"I've brought you the slann, my sweet," he said, his voice tremulous with concern.

"NAH.  I'M NOT 'UNGRY."

Now Welhung was really worried.  He studied her slack face and was about to speak when he was interrupted by a high pitched squeal, followed by the staccato patter of fleshy feet.  One of his brood rushed, wailing, into the room and seized his leg.  He enveloped the child in an embrace.  "What is it?  What 'ave you hurt?"

The infant paused momentarily and pointed at her mouth before burying her face in her father's thigh again.  There was another distressed squeal, and another child pattered in and latched onto his other leg.  A third scream emanated from outside the villa.  Welhung went to the window to investigate as quickly as his encumbered legs could carry him.

The wagon was destroyed.  Durable items were scattered far and wide about the courtyard.  Edible goods had already been devoured.  The young bull rhinox, still in its traces, had been reduced to a heap of gnawed bones.

Welhung arrived at the window just in time to see one of his young attempting to take a large chomp out of the Lucky Chef who was standing miserably in the ruins of the wagon.

Black sparks flared from the skink priest's skin as the magical ward from the Pendant of Khaeleth protected him from the infant's teeth.  The child reeled back with a squeal, hands clamped over a stinging mouth and eyes wide and brimming with tears.

Seconds later, an older boy managed to clamber up onto Taisteslaikck'ken's palanquin, intending to sample space frog.  The result was even more spectacular.  A rainbow of glowing energies erupted and hurled the lad back ten paces.

"Rodekhil!"  Welhung called to his lieutenant who was lurking in the shadows of the gate.  "Take that pair round to the scullery.  They can't stay 'ere."

Rodekhil nodded acquiescence and pushed the floating throne around the back of the villa with two fingertips.  Caneghem trotted to keep up.  The ogre whistled tunelessly as he went.  No doubt his master had intended for the cold bloods to be delivered as ingredients, but Rodekhil had a cunning plan.  The scheme required the skink to stay out of the frying pan.  He would go into the fire instead.

***

The Ogre Kingdoms were a loose confederation in uneasy equilibrium.  Each noble house had a long and proud history.  Each felt it had claim to the overlord-ship of its peers.  The Ogre Over-Tyrant at this time was the fierce Marbutt Hurrtz father of none other than Wellhung's bride, Hellun of Troyarg.

Tyrant Marbutt believed he had a plan to keep hold of the reins of power.  If he kept his thralls focused on external foes, and on their bellies, there would be no change to the status quo.  He was right and wrong at the same time.  His plan was sound, and effective.  It was just that, despite appearances, it was not HIS plan.  The real powers behind the throne were the kitchens.

The ogres might plan their affairs and prosecute war against their enemies.  Exactly what they were up to was all but irrelevant to the High Chefs of their kitchens.

The Chef's of the noble ogre houses wielded significant influence, but the facts that tenure was permanent and that the clients were voracious ogres who would devour just about anything, led to a degree of slackness among the high chefs.

For example, the High Chef to the Over-Tyrant was of such advanced years that his tastebuds were just about burnt out.  To get any sensation from them at all he needed to add excessive amounts of chilli pepper to every recipe.  An occasional spicy dish is good for the soul, but after sixty-seven years the palate yearns for a change.  Also, Over-Tyrant Marbutt Hurrtz had found the fare to have painful after effects, and his "throne" room was shunned by his subjects.

Welhung's own High Chef, originally a captive from Swedia, would gibber incomprehensively and produce disturbing, and sometimes dangerous, experimental dishes.

Rodekhil Offaleater was a good deal more astute than he looked.  During his brief time back in the kingdom with his lord, he had seen that the ogre populace was failing.  From babe to crone, the people were starving, but yet they did not hunger.

Through neglect or design, the Great Kitchens had obviously failed to nourish the ogre kingdoms.  He doubted that the ogres, in their weakened state, could now stand against an external threat. 

Rodekhil saw that the members of Welhung's warband were hale and plump.  He reasoned that the lucky chef was responsible for their good condition.  Perhaps he could assume the role of High Chef if a vacancy opened.

The ogre considered how he might facilitate the succession process without the finger of blame turning upon himself.  After a while he came up with the perfect solution.

If the Swedian Chef were found strangled, everyone would blame his spaghetti bolognaise.

to Chapter 19: The Malaise of the Moon