The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

Besides, they weren’t in any immediate danger. I could figure out what was coming next. As stupid as it was, the Ogre must have finally realized that Greyboar was the real danger. It stopped trying to swipe at the women and grabbed Greyboar’s head in its talons. Then, gaping like the entrance to the Pit, its huge maw descended to bite off the chokester’s head.

My first dart sailed into its mouth and sunk into the soft tissue inside the maw, which should have been pink instead of that nasty, nasty blue-green dripping with saliva. Three more followed, in the blink of an eye, before the horror snapped its jaws shut. The Ogre blinked and gave me a reproachful look.

“Nasty stuff, ain’t it?” I shrieked. I shook my fist at the monster, hopping around with glee. “Try swallowing that, you—you—”

The monster belched and spit out all four darts. “Yech!” it roared. Again, that reproachful look. “You tried to poison me, you little squirt!”

The Ogre started lumbering toward me, intent on revenge. Clearly enough, it had forgotten all about everyone else. I discovered, then, a secret about poisoned darts that I’d never known. Even if you can’t actually kill something that big, you can sure as hell infuriate it.

Under other circumstances, of course, I would have been terrified out of my wits. Having a nine-and-a-half-foot-tall Ogre chasing you around a subterranean grotto will do for that. Take my word for it.

But, at the time, I was practically delirious from joy. As long as the brute was concentrating on me, it wasn’t trying to go after Jenny and Angela. Or Greyboar and Gwendolyn, for that matter.

And, besides, it wasn’t the first time in my life I’d been chased by something bigger than me. If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was scramble-duck-and-dodge.

Oh, I led it a merry chase, if I say so myself, for at least a minute. Then it got sticky, when I slipped on a loose stone and fell flat on my face. By the time I scrambled back to my feet, the Ogre was right there, reaching for me with its talons.

But there weren’t actually that many talons left, just a bunch of bleeding stumps. Gwendolyn’s cleaver-work, that. And with Greyboar still hanging on in the front, the Ogre had to stoop to reach me with its gigantic maw.

Which it did, Greyboar flip-flopping around on its belly. But my two throwing knives went into the gullet, which seemed to discombobulate the monster for a moment. And then—I don’t know where he came from—Wittgenstein was perched right on its snout pissing into its eyes.

Horrid stuff, salamander piss. Especially Wittgenstein’s. The Ogre squawled and forgot all about me. Eyes squeezed tight shut, it was frantically pawing at its snout. But Wittgenstein was long gone by then. The familiar scampered off the monster and scuttled through my legs.

“You owe me, Ignace,” it hissed along the way. “Breakfast in bed, twice.”

I wasn’t about to argue the point. Fact is, my long-standing dislike for the surly little creature had completely disappeared. Let’s hear it for unnatural amphibians!

I started scrambling away myself. Then, behind me, I heard a great thud. I turned around and saw that the Ogre had collapsed to its knees. Hrundig and the Cat must have finally worked through to the sinews.

The Ogre’s eyes were open again, but they seemed empty of any emotion beyond dull confusion. I realized that Greyboar’s death grip was taking its toll. His huge hands were sunk completely into the monster’s neck. If the damned thing wasn’t so stupid it would have been unconscious by now.

The Ogre’s maw was gaping wide again, but this time it was purely a grimace. A moment later, Magrit waddled up and tossed a handful of some kind of powdery stuff down its throat.

“Hold your breath, girls!” she called out cheerfully. “One of my special concoctions—you don’t want any part of it.”

Some of the stuff, whatever it was, must have drifted onto Jenny and Angela. Both of them reared back from the Ogre’s ears—what was left of them—and started hacking and coughing.