In the Company of Ogres Page 4

  The mountain rumbled, and she sensed an impending arrival.

  The wizard materialized slowly with a great deal of pomp. He’d always been more concerned with the form of the magic than the function. A black tower of smoke billowed in the center of the cavern. Phantom women, absurdly proportioned with impossibly ample bosoms and preposterously thin waists and welcoming hips and long lithesome limbs, spun around in the air, droning in a demonic chant.

  “Belok, Belok, Belok, Belok, Belok ...”

  One of the phantoms hovered before the Red Woman. The ghost’s features peeled away to reveal a shining green skull. Her flowing hair turned to scorpions. Her gown fell to tatters. “Belok has come to call upon you. May the gods grant you mercy, for he certainly shall not.” The phantom’s appearance returned to her pretty state.

  The smoke sank back into the ground, and a tall, thin figure stood in its place. His eyes were two golden pearls, his tunic a shimmering silver. He literally glowed with power. But his most striking features were a gray duckbill, a dome of short brown fur spreading from the top of his head to just below his eyes, and webbed, clawed fingertips.

  The Red Woman was unpleasantly surprised to see him. She rarely entertained visitors, and this was one she could do without.

  “Hello, Belok. Care for some brandy?”

  The singing phantoms settled around the wizard’s shoulders. They moaned musically.

  With eyes that were still as sharp as in her youth, she spied a new hair sprout on the wizard’s chin. The mountain godling brimmed with magic, and even merely breathing the enchanted air here brought on Belok’s accursed allergies.

  He reached into his tunic and held up a gleaming diamond. “By this shard of the Splendid Orb of Truth, I compel you, witch! May you speak only with ultimate veracity!”

  “Veracity, veracity!” sang his phantom paramours in melodious glee.

  Belok’s golden eyes gleamed. His aura drew all the light to it, thus shining brighter and darkening the cavern at the same time. The gem clutched in his hand bathed the Red Woman in a pure white beam.

  “Speak, witch!” shouted Belok. “I command you, speak!”

  “Speak, speak, speak,” chanted the chorus.

  The Red Woman supposed a wizard allergic to magic shouldn’t make such a production of it. But for all his power, Belok had never been particularly bright. She sat down again and waited for him to finish. It went on for another minute, although she stopped paying attention to the details. By the end, the fur on Belok’s face had advanced its march to cover another fourth of an inch.

  “Where is he?” demanded the wizard.

  It took a moment for her to realize he was done with his spell. She’d nearly drifted off to sleep.

  “Answer unclear,” she replied. “Try again.”

  She thought he snarled. It was hard to read such expressions on the wizard’s accursed bill. “But I wield a Shard of Truth. You can’t keep a secret from me.”

  “You overestimate yourself, Belok. And your stone.” She hobbled over to his side and plucked the diamond from his hand. “May I?”

  He nodded curtly.

  She tossed the stone to her jeweler, who examined it for a moment. “This isn’t a Shard of Truth. It’s just a diamond. And a poor quality one at that.”

  “You must be mistaken,” said Belok. “I bought the stone from an alchemist in Minetown, and he assured me—”

  “He bilked you,” replied the jeweler.

  “I am Belok. I am the greatest wizard in all the lands. I cannot be bilked.” His phantoms shrieked mournfully at the very notion.

  The Red Woman took the stone from the zombie and gave it back to the wizard. “Fine. Just take your worthless shard and leave me be. I don’t know why we keep having to go through this. Orb of Truth or not, you haven’t the strength to compel me. These visits of yours change nothing. Nothing except you.”

  “Damn you, witch. I should rip out your hollow soul and feed it to my minions.”

  The phantoms licked their lips.

  “Spare me your threats. I’m every bit as powerful as you. Certainly my defeat is a possibility should we duel, but I would not fall easily, and the victory would cost you dearly, wouldn’t it?” She leaned on her staff. “Have you grown that tail yet?”

  He frowned. “A little one.”

  “Ah, well, I see the transformation is coming along smoothly then. You know, you needn’t ever worry about it if you’d stop using magic.”

  “I am Belok! I am magic in the flesh! Vengeance is mine!” His phantoms howled terribly, shaking loose a few of the smaller stalactites. They crashed to the ground, shattering. The zombie maiden sighed while sweeping the pieces into a pile.

  “Be off on your vengeance then, but I can’t help you. I can only offer my sympathies toward your plight.” In truth, the Red Woman had absolutely none. He’d earned his curse, and she considered it mercifully short of the punishment he deserved. But there was some irony in it, she supposed. For Belok could’ve lived a perfectly peaceful life had he the wisdom to put aside his magic. Something he could never do. The punishment was only the form of his undoing, while his own mad obsession with arcane power was the true cause. In that way, the curse was quite poetic.

  “Shall we continue this discussion?” the Red Woman asked. “I haven’t the time to spare, and neither, I suspect, do you.”

  “You can’t hide him forever.”

  “And neither can you stave off your transformation forever. Not so long as you insist on casting spells that will not work and visiting enchanted mountains.”

  “I’ll be back.” He snapped his duckbill. “And next time, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

  His exit wasn’t the presentation of his entrance. It never was after one of these unsuccessful visits. He and his phantoms simply vanished.

  “I thought he’d never leave,” said the raven.

  A fly nibbled away the last particle of flesh on the jeweler’s elbow. The skeleton chuckled, falling into an inanimate heap. The rest of the workers glared enviously at the pile of bones.

  “You’ll be dead evermore soon enough.” The Red Woman smacked the sweeping maiden lightly on the backside. “Now get back to work.”

  The sorceress eyed the jeweler’s remains and shook her head with a sigh.

  Five

  CONSCIOUSNESS ATTACKED NED like a thundering beast. Given a choice, he’d have stayed asleep. Forever. It was the next best thing to being dead. But he didn’t have choices. He just had things he had to do, and waking up was one of those things.

  His brain throbbed, pushing against the cage of his skull. He thought for sure it must’ve been oozing out of his empty socket. His left arm was stiff and unyielding. Any attempt to move it met only with a terrible ache, so he let it lie. Blood crusted under his nostrils. All these he expected, but there was something new: he tasted fish.

  He hated fish. Even drunk on doom stout, he couldn’t imagine willingly putting it to his mouth. He ran his tongue across his lips. It was fish all right. Salty, not horribly fishy tasting, but indisputably fish.

  He smacked audibly and moved the pillow from atop his head. Furious light flooded in, and he put the pillow back with a groan.

  “Good morning, sir,” Miriam purred, “or should I say, good afternoon?” Her silken voice stirred those animal lusts, but his hangover and the peril of daylight kept him from responding.

  He was too achy to smile, but he remembered now. A vague recollection of a night spent with her in his arms. It’d been magic. At least, he thought it’d been magic. The stout blurred the details. Still, he’d gotten laid. That counted for something. Maybe Ogre Company wouldn’t be so bad at all.

  Something scaly slipped between the covers to touch his shoulder. He pulled away.

  “I have to get going, sir,” said Miriam. “Kiss before I’m off?”

  Eye closed, he lifted the pillow and puckered. Soft, cool lips met his. They tasted like fish. She tasted like fish. Reflexes k
icked in, and he tumbled out of bed. For a minute, he struggled against the covers entangling him and the burning heat of daylight. When his vision cleared, he glimpsed a creature, a woman covered in golden scales, standing over him. She spoke with Miriam’s voice.

  “I guess this means the honeymoon is over, sir.”

  Ned covered his eye. “How drunk was I?”

  “Very drunk, sir. But that really doesn’t have much to do with it. I tend to appear to all men as the woman of their innermost desire. Hazard of being a siren.”

  He recalled how she’d looked last night. Pretty, yes, but nothing supernaturally appealing.

  “Think about it,” she said. “Is there anyone you’ve ever desired who you couldn’t have?”

  He didn’t feel like running through the list right now. It didn’t matter. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d left a tavern with a beautiful girl and woke up to a woman with webbed toes. He swore this time it’d be the last. Although he’d sworn that the last time, so he couldn’t pretend the promise counted for much.

  Now that the shock had worn off, he noticed Miriam’s shape was distinctly feminine. More so than he’d seen last night. She had long, supple legs, a narrow waist, and noteworthy breasts. Her face, resting someplace between a cod and a woman, left a lot to be desired. But her scales glinted beautifully, and the fins atop her head were tall and regal.

  “Why don’t you look like you did?” he asked.

  “Like this?” She whistled a few pleasant notes. His vision blurred, and she transformed into a tall, dark-skinned woman. Not the same form as last night, but still very familiar. Yet another woman on his list that he couldn’t quite place.

  She stopped whistling, and the illusion fell away. “Sharing a bed has given you some tolerance, sir. Now it only works when I sing. That’s why I seduced you. So we could get past it right away. Better for both of us.”

  He winced and felt sick. It wasn’t Miriam. He was okay with that. Not happy about it, but okay. Remnants of doom stout congealed in his stomach, coated his throat. He felt like throwing up, but the stout wasn’t letting him off that easy.

  She smiled. A nice smile, even framed by plump, purple lips. “Admit it. You had fun.”

  He couldn’t really remember. A night with the woman of his dreams and all he could recall was the morning after.

  “Permission to leave, sir? If I don’t take a dip, I’ll start flaking.”

  He granted it. She slipped into her uniform, offered a casual salute, and left his quarters. He lay on his bed for a while, dredging up blackened bits of sludge from his throat. In a little over fifteen minutes, he’d half filled his chamber pot with a revolting brackish paste.

  Someone knocked on his door. He grunted an approximation of “Come in.”

  Gabel entered and saluted. “Sir, first officer reporting for duty.”

  “Can I help you?” asked Ned, then remembered he was in charge here. “What is it?”

  Gabel bowed. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering when you’d like to do your first inspection.”

  “Never,” said Ned honestly.

  Gabel’s brow furrowed curiously. “Sir?”

  “Later. I’ll do them later.”

  “And the address, sir?” asked Gabel.

  “What?”

  “The introductory address, sir? To introduce yourself to the troops.”

  “Later.” Ned yawned. “Much later.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gabel coughed softly to fill the silence while he organized his thoughts. “Might I ask you a question, sir?”

  Ned groaned. “Yes, I was dead last night. And yes, I know they call me Never Dead Ned. But I guess that’s only because Occasionally Dead Ned isn’t nearly as catchy. Does that answer your question?”

  “It’s true then. You can’t die.”

  “Actually, I die very well. In fact, I dare say I’m the undisputed grand master of the art of perishing. It’s the staying-dead part that I’m not very good at.”

  Gabel coughed again to cover an awkward silence.

  “I’ve never met an immortal before, sir.”

  “I’ve never met such a tall goblin.”

  Gabel frowned. “I’m an orc, sir.”

  Ned frowned. “Are you sure about that?”

  An edge entered Gabel’s voice. “Quite certain, sir.”

  Ned rubbed his face and studied Gabel for a few seconds before deciding he didn’t give a damn. “Permission to leave.”

  Confused, Gabel looked around the room. “These are your quarters, sir.”

  “I was giving you permission.”

  The first officer saluted. “Thank you, sir. I’ll alert the men to expect your address later this evening.”

  Ned mumbled something that was neither an affirmation nor a contradiction and rolled over in his bed. He disappeared under his blanket, but before Gabel could leave, Ned grumbled from under the covers.

  “Do you know of anything that’s good for washing out fishy tastes?”

  “I believe the general consensus is a tall glass of warm grog works best, sir.”

  “General consensus?”

  “Miriam has known most of the other men here, sir. In the most traditional sense of the word.” Gabel grinned wryly. “Shall I fetch that grog for you, sir?”

  The blankets bounced up and down in what Gabel took as a nod. He left the room, slamming the door shut. Ned groaned loud enough to hear through the walls. Gabel’s grin vanished.

  “Well?” asked Frank.

  “Is it him?” asked Regina.

  Gabel nodded.

  “I thought you said he was dead,” said Frank.

  “He was.”

  “Are you certain it’s him and not just some other human?” asked Frank.

  “I can tell one human from another, thank you very much.” Gabel’s long, goblinlike ears wilted. “And this one is very distinctive. No one would mistake him for anyone else.”

  “But how is it possible?” asked Frank.

  “Obviously it’s some sort of magic,” said Regina. “Is he a wizard?”

  “He doesn’t look like a wizard,” said Gabel.

  Frank leaned low, which still made him very tall, and whispered, “Maybe he’s a secret wizard.”

  Gabel’s voice boomed in comparison. “A secret what?”

  Frank picked up the orc with one massive hand and clamped the other over Gabel’s mouth. The ogre’s meaty palm covered all of Gabel’s face. He flopped around and resisted, but there wasn’t much he could do. Frank nodded toward the far end of the hall, and he and Regina tiptoed away from Ned’s door. Frank released Gabel.

  “I could have you court-martialed for that,” said Gabel.

  “I didn’t want him to hear you.” Frank tapped the patch on his shoulder. “Besides, I outrank you.”

  “No, I outrank you.” Gabel tapped his own patch with a sneer.

  “No, you’re first officer. I’m organizational lieutenant, first class. That puts me above you.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Will you two stop bickering?” Regina folded her arms across her chest and stood ramrod straight.

  “You can’t tell us what to do,” said Frank.

  “Yeah,” agreed Gabel, “we outrank you.”

  “No, you don’t.” She pointed to the insignia stitched to her robe just above her left breast. Frank and Gabel took note of it, but were wise enough not to stare too long and risk receiving a brutal right hook. “As archmajor, second stratum, sixth class, I’m the highest-ranking officer here.” She tapped her temple with her finger. “At least, I’m pretty sure I am. I know I outrank at least one of you.”

  “Damn, the Legion made this complicated.” Frank scratched the mane of thick red hair atop his pointed head. “Makes me wish I’d signed up with a smaller army sometimes.”

  Gabel said, “We can go back to my office and check the flowchart: ’

  “Ah, forget it. Doesn’t matter.” Frank leaned in once again and whispered
, “What I was getting at was that maybe our new commander is actually a secret wizard.”

  “What in the Grand Goddess’s name is a secret wizard?” asked Regina.

  “It’s like a wizard. But secret.” Frank bent lower until his head was level with Gabel’s. “They’re very dangerous.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  Though the Amazon and the ore kept their voices normal, Frank continued to whisper. “Very few have. That’s why they’re called secret wizards.”

  “Well, what’s the point of being a wizard if you’re going to keep it secret?” asked Gabel.

  “Exactly.”

  Frank smiled wide and nodded very slowly, but he didn’t supply any further explanation. Gabel was content to let the subject drop, but Regina couldn’t help herself.

  “What makes these secret wizards so dangerous?”

  Frank leaned forward until his comrades were certain he’d fall on them. His voice was barely audible.

  “Nobody knows.”

  Gabel sighed, and Frank stood straight and frowned.

  “Don’t you understand? They’re like wizards, but secret. They’re not like proper sorcerers living in floating castles and consorting with demons and mixing potions. Those kind are bothersome, but you know what to expect. There’s protocol. Some nasty bugger raises an army of the dead or decides to forge an accursed ring or some other such nonsense, you can always dig up a magic sword or find some prophesied hero or just assemble a huge army and take care of them.

  “But secret wizards walk among us. Nobody knows how many there are. Nobody knows what they’re up to. And that’s what makes them so dangerous.”

  “Fine. Let’s pretend there is such a thing.” Gabel grunted skeptically. “If Ned were a secret wizard, then returning from the dead would blow his secret.”

  Frank nodded with that knowing grin of his. “It’s just the sort of thing a true secret wizard would never do. Which is precisely why it’s just the sort of thing a very clever secret wizard would do.”

  “That does make a certain sense,” admitted Regina. “It’d certainly throw off suspicion.”

  “Let me get this straight.” Gabel paced in a small circle. “Never Dead Ned may actually be a secret wizard because secret wizards don’t go around showing off their power in public, except to convince people that they aren’t really secret wizards, which very few people suspect even exist in the first place.”