…as witnessed by Bob One-Thumb, second mate to Moruk
The weather was bleeding lousy. The riders took me off their soddin’ horses and threw me in the mud and I got a look at that poxin’ mucker that gave our boss what’s what. He was dressed like a devil, aye, and cold as a demon.
He brought out our chief with all his lads all gawking and jeering at me, looking like death is’self.
He ordered one of his mates to prop me up, since I was busted up bad by his lads, and could hardly stand. Then he had a few more of his buggers drag the chief forward.
The poor chief was bound tight, and his horns were shaved to the skull. His left eye missing and it looked like his body was horsewhipped a hundred times at least. Could barely recognize the boss from all the beating he done suffer under.
So then the chief bugger of this crew plunks himself down on a heavy chair under a tarp and motions his mates to bring me forward.
“Listen here, dog,” he starts “yer boss there, he’s a pirate and a bandit. So now he dies for his crimes. Ye get to watch it, and go tell yer lads what really happened, so that they stop their piss-mucked pirating on our good ships and get their whore-bitch-whelp selves from our seas…,” beg pardon, but it done was his words, not mine.
Then his men prop the boss up, he can barely move, as I said, and they drag him over to some bleedin’ rock with mallets and spikes.
Now what’s all this about, I ask me’self. But I’m gonna find out soon.
“For ‘is crimes against the innocents of Tharovace I pronounce death. Fer ‘is crimes against sailors and merchants I pronounce death. For ‘is bleedin’ bloodline I pronounce: death!”
Then he has one of his lads jerk me head to watch the boss, who says nothing, just takes it. The black armored chief lifts a mug o’ mead to his lips and drinks a sip while some witchy doxy stands ‘aside him, fawning over him like a third class whore.
“Crucify him,” he said coldly, and sipped his drink under the shelter of his bleedin’ tarp.
Then his mates took mallet and spike and spread the boss out on the rock and drove the spikes through his arms and legs, pinning him to the rock. They left him up there for an hour or more, cutting on him and laughing as he groaned in his pain.
When it was all over the devil in the black armor turned to face me, but was talking so all who could hear, I reckon, making hisself look big.
“There let he hang till the end of time,” he said with a big sweep o’ his arm, and then he had his mates give me a raggedy horse and sent me from his camp back to the coast to tell the story of his ‘justice’ to our chief.
So that’s me tale. Now ye know the real truth of it.