And the hideous scenes of individual tragedy, which burn deeper into the memory than the general slaughter! The elderly Seneschal of the Keep, cornered, crying: “Down, boy, down!” ‘Twas perhaps the snarl’s annoyance at this confusion of her sex which caused her to linger over the dotard’s demise. The young Captain of Cuirassiers, stripped from his half-armor like an oyster from its shell, yet still possessing that savoir faire which is the hallmark of the aristocracy to which his handsome-though-ashen features clearly marked his membership, down on one knee in a clever stratagem, snapping his fingers, saying: “Here kitty, kitty, kitty!” Alas, to no avail! The distinguished Chamberlain—but enough! I grow nauseous at the memory!
Worse than the snarl’s bestiality was the dastardly role played by the gnome Shelyid. ‘Twas only the apprentice’s aiding and abetting which permitted the slaughter to continue. Time and again, clots of fleeing officials and soldiers would yet retain the presence of mind to close and lock behind them the great iron doors which separated the various sections of the castle. On such occasions—each and every one!—would the pitiless dwarf leap from the snarl’s shoulders and open the locks. The locks once turned, of course, no weight of officialdom leaning on the other side could for an instant prevent the snarl from forcing its way through. Then! Ambassador Salad—tossed! Flank of Diplomat—shredded! Plenipotentiary Steak—chopped! Loin of Legate! Envoy Bouillabaisse! Not to mention, of course, the steady diet of Ground Round Dragoon.
Worse yet than the butchery of bodies was the spiritual anguish of unshriven souls. For oft were cries of rue and chagrin heard issuing from the lips of the doomed! And, as is known by man and louse alike, ’tis bad enough to die, but ’tis worse to die in the grip of hopeless regret.
“I told him not to use the whips!” were the last words of a consul, even as he disappeared into the great maw.
“Damn all Cruds and their schemes!” came from a stalwart Colonel of Lance, expiring on the chandelier whence a single blow of the snarl’s paw had sent him and his several and separate portions.
The most common expression of regret, of course, was the ubiquitous phrase: “He could have at least fed the thing!”
In this entire holocaust, I can hear the reader’s shaken query in my mind’s ear: was there a single instance where the dwarf Shelyid used his influence to stay the monster? Even for a moment? Even if in vain?
Not one.
To the contrary! The gnome urged the ravenous beast on! Yes! Yes! I say it again! Time and again, Shelyid was heard to say, in the childlike tones of a boy excusing his pet’s misconduct: “That mean Mr. Inkman! Starving you like that!”
From this day, came a sea change over the attitude of the Alfredae—of its scribal class, I should say—toward the dwarf. Of Shelyid’s pathetically addled mind, of course, our view remained unchanged. But where, in times gone by, superior and subordinate notaries alike—even Alfreds themselves!—were oft heard to say: “Still and all, a sweet-tempered little fellow”—never again! Nay, never again! In the stead of such benevolent comments came the frequent habit, on the part of superior and subordinate notaries alike, of referring to the evil-souled apprentice by those cognomens which were to become, all too soon, the common property of the civilized world entire:
Shelyid the Terrible.
Shelyid the Merciless.
Shelyid the Cruel.
The Runt Rampant.
The Thuggee Dwarf.
Kali’s Gnome.
The Midget Sans Merci.
Pygmy the Impaler.
And, of course: The Rebel.
But worst of all was the sea change which now also began among the lesser lice—the pen-fumblers, the ink-spillers, the mis-spellers, the lack-grammars, the declension-bunglers, the—well!—in sum, that entire motley rabble which is known as the class of louselouts.
For these dregs reacted otherwise than the cultured strata. Oh, otherwise indeed! Throughout The Snarlrun, while their betters stood silent, aghast, able to keep quill to paper solely by dint of long training and stern regimen, did the canaille gather upon Shelyid’s shoulders and cavort shamelessly. Disgusting slogans did they chant:
“Two, four, six, eight! What do we appreciate? Masticate! Masticate!”
Most popular of all: “De Flense! De Flense!”