The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

“Bah!” oathed the mage. “Think you a pitiful Great Ogre of Grotum can withstand my powers? Bah!”

He turned to Shelyid. The dwarf had already unlaced the sack and was climbing into it. “What’ll it be, professor?” he asked cheerfully. “Quick Yerkil’s Disogrement Made Easy? Angemar the Clear-Minded’s Insta-Quick Talisman? Suleiman the Modest’s Simple and Surefire Cantrips?”

“Bah!” oathed the wizard. “Am I a novice? An apprentice fumbling at lessons? Get me Gastro’s Iliac, insolent dwarf! The Gravid translation, mind you—I have no truck with the others.”

I had a bad feeling even before Shelyid’s face fell. “But, professor,” whined his apprentice, “that’ll take—”

“Do as I command!” bellowed the mage. Shelyid ducked and vanished into the sack.

I started to argue with the sorcerer, but a glimpse of Jenny and Angela hurling themselves on the Ogre distracted me. Completely.

“What are you doing?” I shrieked.

The girls paid no attention to me at all. The next thing I knew, Jenny was perched on the horror’s left shoulder and was biting one of its great bat’s ears. The Ogre squealed and tried to swipe her off with a paw. But Angela was already on the other shoulder and met the paw with a swipe of the kitchen knife she’d brought with her.

The knife bounced off the Ogre’s knuckles and went sailing. A second later, so did Jenny. Angela shrieked and started biting the other ear. The paw swiped again, and off she went. Both girls wound up in a heap on one side of the grotto.

“Are you hurt?” I wailed, racing over to them. “Are you hurt?”

They bowled me over on their way back to the fray. I went sailing myself, head over heels.

By the time I untangled myself, they were back up on the Ogre’s shoulders and were resuming their ear-biting. Again, the Ogre broke off its grappling with Greyboar and started swiping at them. Ear-biting wouldn’t kill the great monster, but I guess its ears were pretty sensitive.

This time, however, Gwendolyn was up there with them. She was clad in that leather get-up that she’d always favored for what she called “real work.” Leather jacket, sleeveless leather vest, tight leather pants tucked into knee-high leather boots. It’s quite an outfit, especially filled with Gwendolyn’s Amazon figure. She could have made a fortune as a professional dominatrix.

She was straddling the creature’s great back, with her legs around its rib cage. Gwendolyn’s legs were just long enough that she’d been able to reach all the way around and lock her ankles together. If the Ogre had been inclined toward bondage and discipline, it would have been in sheer ecstasy. Even if the boots didn’t have high heels.

Alas, it wasn’t. But its swipe at Jenny was met with Gwendolyn’s cleaver this time, and that was a whole different kettle of fish. Gwendolyn could split logs with that thing. She did split a knuckle, right down to the bone.

The Ogre howled and swiped at her. Another chunk of the cleaver, then another. One of the Ogre’s talons fell off.

Hrundig and the Cat, meanwhile, were hacking at the creature’s legs with sword and lajatang, trying to hamstring the brute. They didn’t seem to be having any luck, although they’d turned the legs into a mass of green ichor.

The Ogre was staggering around the grotto now, bellowing with fury. Greyboar’s hands were still locked onto its throat, like a pit bull on a mastiff three times its size. I saw that he’d left off trying to crush the thing’s windpipe and had both his hands sunk into the sides of the Ogre’s neck, trying to close off the jugular veins. From the dazed look on the creature’s face, it looked like the project was starting to yield fruit. As they say.

As terrified as I was over Jenny and Angela’s situation, I gave up any thought of trying to haul them off the Ogre. It was clear enough from the way they were chewing on its ears that both girls had adopted the ancient motto of the midget in a brawl: You may get a meal, bigshot, but I’m damned well gonna get me a sandwich.