***
“An inescapable conclusion. That’s what we have here,” Ogilvey muttered to himself. He had looked around in every direction, searching—stupidly, he now realized—for some way out. He sagged, acknowledging the futility of any remaining hope. The bars of the cage were too sturdily constructed and its vicinity too heavily guarded to allow any real prospect of escape for him or the ragged soldiers interned with him. Outside the cage two Kra guards chatted quietly, their Kra-naga words obscured by the incessant drumbeat. But they were not the major cause of Ogilvey’s sinking feeling. He watched with growing concern while two Kra, perhaps minor priests, washed and cleaned the stone altar beneath the idol’s jaws. It looked as though they were purifying it for a ritual, the purpose of which Ogilvey could readily guess.
Then another Kra appeared on the raised altar platform whom Ogilvey immediately recalled from his first sojourn into the temple: Gar’s co-commander, Oogon. He stood a head taller than his companions and moved among them with an air that seemed to intimidate even the other Kra. As before, he wore a headdress with double rows of long fiery red feathers sweeping back above the black feathers of his mane. In addition to his silver metal breastplate with ornate blood red enamel markings, braces of red feathers had been bound to his shoulders, elbows, knees and ankles to give him the appearance of a hellish Zulu general with the face of a dragon.
“Oogon,” Ogilvey muttered to himself, “the High Priest of Death.”
The frightful creature strutted back and forth underneath the idol in a fit of exultation. I should feel honored, Ogilvey thought wryly, to be a guest at Oogon’s victory celebration.
The temple was slowly filling with Kra. As the two attendant priests finished sanctifying the altar, dozens of other Kra gathered in a recessed floor area below the altar. Oogon strutted, chanting softly to himself until the crowd filled the floor. Then he raised his arms to the demon god and bellowed, “Jalah Eng-Kan!”
The assembled Kra responded, “Tooveet Eng-Kan!”
Oogon launched into an invocation spoken so rapidly that Ogilvey could only occasionally catch the meaning. Raving about victory and greater triumphs ahead, Oogon pointed to the cage where Ogilvey and the soldiers were imprisoned, calling upward to the idol as if thanking the deity it represented. The other Kra shared his exuberance, bobbing their heads to the drum rhythm and punctuating his speech with tumultuous cheers that echoed powerfully in the chamber. Finally Oogon pointed a clawed finger at the cage and shouted, “Kootsah!”
The drumming immediately ceased and the Kra mob turned toward the cage expectantly. The nearest guard unlocked the gate and swung it open. Covered by the other guard’s rifle, he stepped in among the captives. The men pressed back to the periphery to avoid him, but he had already selected his target. He went straight to MacIlvain and reached out a taloned hand.
The colonel’s face filled with dread. “No,” he pleaded, “Please…”
Other soldiers pressed forward to intercede but the guard outside growled and made it clear by gesture that he would shoot any man who laid a hand on his companion. The first Kra clutched MacIlvain’s shoulder and roughly dragged him to his feet. The colonel seemed to realize the inevitability of his situation. He straightened and stood tall, shaking off any remaining fear. As the Kra pulled him toward the gate he paused momentarily by Ogilvey. “Sorry about the way things turned out.”
“Yes.” Ogilvey softly concurred. “Me too.”
The Kra led MacIlvain hobbling out of the cage and latched the gate after him. As they crossed the floor to the altar, the crowd parted. The colonel walked as tall and bravely as his injured leg would allow, passing straight through the center of the bloodthirsty slavering Kra horde.
At the altar, Oogon barked a command and his two sub-priests sprang into action. They roughly stripped MacIlvain to the waist and then forced him down across the altar, stretching him out flat on his back. His empty brown holster hung uselessly over the edge of the stone block. The drumbeat started again and quickly intensified.
Oogon stood over the helpless colonel and renewed his raving incantation. Holding his arms up toward the stone idol’s face he cawed, “Hoonahn, ke tooto—”
Ogilvey quietly translated the words to himself. “Hoonahs, like this one, are no more than animals. They have no spirits, despite their seeming intelligence. Soon, they will be nothing more to us than—livestock!”
The Kra horde, which had grown to forty or fifty individuals, roared its approval.
Inside the cage soldiers crowded around Ogilvey, gripping the bars and watching the proceedings in horrified fascination. Oogon pressed on with his oratory and Ogilvey continued his translation aloud.
“We Kra are the rightful rulers of this world. We lived here first and will rule Eka again. These mammals have no place here now. No place except… on the Altar of Death!”
A savage cheer reverberated through the chamber. The Kra acolytes held MacIlvain tightly across the altar. Oogon raised his head toward the blackness of the ceiling, let out a fierce shriek and then plunged his gaping jaws down onto MacIlvain’s exposed belly. Poor MacIlvain screamed in agony as Oogon bit and jerked his head viciously from side to side. Sharp fangs tore into MacIlvain’s body and pulled free a dark bloody mass.
“Good Lord!” Ogilvey gasped as the High Priest lofted the mass in his teeth. Oogon had, in a single bite, torn MacIlvain’s liver from his abdomen. The colonel writhed in a death-agony on the altar as Oogon displayed the grizzly prize in his jaws and the Kra spectators roared in cruel delight. With a single motion, the High Priest tossed his head back and gulped the bloody mass down his throat. A new roar went up from the crowd as the outline of the liver slid down Oogon’s long neck, gulped in a series of hard swallows.
MacIlvain lay on the altar, twitching in death and uttering a last expiring gasp. But Oogon was not content to let him succumb entirely through loss of blood. He spoke a word to the acolytes at MacIlvain’s head and feet and they picked up and heaved the dying man onto the floor in front of the altar. The throng of Kra leaped on him, tearing out huge bites of flesh. Ogilvey averted his eyes from the frenzied rending and tearing as each Kra went in for his or her share.
As the horrid feast concluded and the temple drums settled back into a monotonous rhythm, Oogon and his acolytes formed a small procession leaving the altar and marching in stately fashion toward a dark doorway that exited the temple beyond the prisoner cage. Although Ogilvey was revolted by what he had witnessed and trembling in terror, he saw an opportunity as they passed. “Wait!” he cried.
Oogon stopped and looked him over coolly.
If he could just think of the words… “Ulan tzee-tah ne,” Ogilvey pleaded in Kra-naga. “You must listen.”
Oogon approached, looking him up and down imperiously.
He continued, “Gar netok,” — “Gar says…”
At these words a fierce and hateful light filled Oogon’s eyes. He thrust a hand between the bars and struck Ogilvey hard across the face, knocking him to the ground. As the professor sprawled on the damp stone floor Oogon snarled down at him, “Gar seestok en!” — “Gar is a traitor!”
The High Priest wheeled and strode away. Turning to one of the sub-priests, he cackled a few words. The acolyte nodded as they disappeared through the dark exit doorway together. Ogilvey put his glasses back on and dabbed at blood oozing from two claw-gashes on his cheek. He puzzled over what Oogon had said on his way out, turning the sounds over in his mind. A particular word had seemed familiar.
“Let’s see,” he mumbled. “nepoo… nepoo… um, oh yes, the plump one. That’s it. The plump one dies next.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed with a sudden chill running through him. He looked around at the soldiers. Every one of them was trim and lean, military fit. As he gazed at his own portly belly a soldier asked, “What did he say?”
Ogilvey replied glumly, “He said I have a weight problem.”