“You’re an onker, Dray Prescot, an onker of onkers, a get-onker!”
The onward rush carried me forward with all the impetuosity of a numim lad chasing a Fristle fifi. His derisive shout echoed in my ears — “A get-onker!” — and I swear my blade touched a down-draped silk, for the damned throne took off and shot into the air before vanishing. I stood there like a veritable loon, like the onker I’d so often been dubbed.
“By the disgusting diseased tripes and innards of Makki Grodno! And also by the unmentionables of the Divine Lady of Belschutz! Deb-Lu — get me after him!”
I stood in a vast hall dimly lit by braziers which cast thick shadows from fat and rotund pillars. Incense stank on the air. Furtive movements filled the shadows with menace. And — there stood that confounded throne with C
