In the Company of Ogres Page 5

  “It’s a very clever ploy,” said Frank.

  “Ingenious,” agreed Regina.

  “It’s ludicrous.” Gabel’s voice rose, though he successfully resisted the sudden urge to shout. “It’s absolutely absurd. That has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He stared down the ogre. Frank picked something out of the hair on his thick forearm, sniffed, and ate it. When Gabel stopped panting with annoyance, Frank mumbled, “Or it might just be the cleverest thing you’ve ever heard of.”

  Gabel ground his teeth. “Even if he were, which he isn’t, he wouldn’t be that clever.”

  By now, the Amazon was entrenched in the subject. She began to whisper too. “Anyone could be a secret wizard. And the more unlikely the suspect, the more likely they could be. What could they want?”

  “Nobody knows,” said Frank. “And few are willing to speculate.”

  Gabel threw up his hands. “When you’re ready to talk about something more important than imaginary secret societies of hypothetical diabolical wizards, you can find me in my office. Oh, and Regina, the commander asked for some grog. You should get on that.”

  “Why me?”

  Gabel struck on a plan that was very likely to put Ned back in his grave. Or at the very least, get Regina demoted. Since Gabel wasn’t truly certain he outranked her, he couldn’t lose either way. “The commander asked for a leggy redhead. I told him we didn’t have any redheads, but he said a blonde would do in a pinch.”

  Regina scowled. “Swine.”

  “And he said to hurry up your pretty little ass.”

  With a guttural growl, she clutched the sword at her side.

  Gabel, his back to her, chuckled before heading off to his office to consult the ranking flowchart.

  Regina drew the weapon a few inches from its sheath and slammed it back into place several times. She glared at Frank. Her black eyes simmered with disgust for all males in general and one in particular. Even the very large ogre felt a trickle of fear down his back.

  “I wouldn’t suggest killing him unless you can be sure he’ll remain dead. Even if it didn’t upset him, he’d probably have you written up.”

  “Yes. You’re right, of course.” But her eyes didn’t soften, and her grip on her sword tightened. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve grog to fetch.”

  Frank stepped aside, and she stalked her way across the citadel to the tavern. Every soldier knew well enough to stay out of her way by her burning gaze, clenched fists, and the hard kick of her step.

  Regina’s temperament had gotten her transferred to Ogre Company. The logic was, as ogres were large and fearsome, she’d be less likely to pick fights with them. It’d worked so far, but this was mostly because no ogres had gotten on her bad side yet. “An angry wife is good for life,” went an old ogre adage, and had Regina been an ogress, she would’ve been very popular. But she was human, and ogres preferred human women to be delicate and cuddly, thinking of them more as pets one could fornicate with than as lifelong mates.

  Regina did have frequent tussles with the humans and orcs stationed at Copper Citadel, but in Ogre Company, as long as no one lost a limb, such incidents rarely found their way into a soldier’s permanent record.

  She brought the grog back to Ned’s quarters. Pausing outside the door, she drew her sword. Perhaps she couldn’t kill him with it, but she might be able to teach him a lesson in respect. Frank’s warning came back to her. He’d made a valid point. Ogre Company was the last place left her. If she blew this, she blew her career in the Legion. She didn’t want to start over in another army.

  “He’s not worth it,” she told herself. “He’s just another worthless man.”

  Wrapping herself in Amazonian superiority, she sheathed the blade and pushed open the door without knocking.

  Ned, obscured beneath blankets, groaned.

  “Your grog, sir.”

  A scarred arm poked out from under the covers. It looked a little gangrenous. The fingers grabbed at the air until she put the mug in his hand. The limb retracted, and heavy gulps issued from beneath the cloth.

  “Thanks. That is better.” He belched and tossed the empty mug to the floor.

  “Anything else, sir?” she asked.

  “What?”

  She swallowed hard. Her hand toyed with the dagger on her belt. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  Ned lowered the blanket, exposing his face and shoulders, a lattice of ugly discolorations. She’d seen healthier corpses. She expected a leer, perhaps an open ogle of her womanly perfection, but Ned barely glanced at her before rolling over, allowing her a glimpse of the slashes and scabs along his back. She found herself mesmerized, staring at the history lacerated upon his skin.

  He turned his head to look up at her with his one eye, and she smiled at him without realizing it.

  “Are you still here?” he asked.

  She frowned. “Sorry, sir.”

  She saluted, turned, and left the room. In the hall, she stopped, feeling suddenly short of breath. She leaned against the wall as her legs were inexplicably shaky. She closed her eyes, and the slashes and scabs along his back flashed through her mind. There’d been a sword wound and, beneath that, a dagger’s mark. Beside that, a purple welt that had to have come from a crushing mace blow. Claws of some terrible beast raked across his shoulder blades. And there was more than this. So much more. It was beautiful.

  He was beautiful.

  Regina had never felt this way before, and she didn’t like it. She fingered her sword, contemplating removing the object causing her discomfort. But this was Never Dead Ned. She couldn’t kill him.

  And maybe, she considered with a snarl, she didn’t want to.

  Six

  NED HADN’T CARED about bookkeeping, nor soldiering, nor anything he’d done before that. Nor did he care about his new command position. If there was passion to be found in life, Ned was still looking. He did what was expected of him and very little else. And inspections were expected. After he’d slept off his hangover, he’d realized that. He roused himself from his nice, cozy bed, got dressed, and set about on his duty.

  Seeing Copper Citadel in the light of day for the first time, Ned decided his initial assessment of the fortress had been too kind. The whole place was in terrible shape. The walls were crumbling. The buildings were in the middle of slow-motion collapse. Nothing had been cleaned or polished in a very long time, and garbage had been heaped in out-of-the-way corners—and in not-so-out-of-the-way corners. The cobblestones were cracked and uneven. The walls were held up only by the braces of garbage piles. And the front gate was too rusted to even close.

  The soldiers of Ogre Company assembled before their new commander. Ned scanned the rank and file. The sun was near setting, and details were hard to pick out. In addition, the soldiers milled about in disorderly fashion, more a disoriented throng than a disciplined military unit. He estimated about three hundred ogres, one hundred ores, seventy-five humans, a few elves and trolls here and there. There were goblins as well, but too many to bother counting.

  Ned walked from one end of the courtyard and back again. He decided that was enough of a show.

  “Dismissed,” he grunted.

  “Back to your duties, you pathetic wastrels!” shouted Gabel. “Makes me sick to look at the lot of you, undisciplined scum!”

  The courtyard began to clear out, although no one seemed to have any particular place to go. A handful of soldiers remained.

  “Sir.” Gabel saluted. “I believe you’ll want to have a look at our more singular personnel.”

  Ned wanted no such thing, but it seemed the kind of thing a commander was supposed to do. “All right.”

  “The archmajor has the files for your convenience, sir,” said Gabel.

  Regina stepped up, carrying an armload of scrolls.

  Ned waved her away. “Just show me.”

  Regina and Gabel exchanged shrugs.

  “Very well, sir.” Gabel led
Ned to the first in line.

  The short, wiry soldier had a worn face, and a long red beard hanging to his belly. Even in the light of dusk, Ned could see the soldier’s eyes were white and glassy as pearls. Ned barely glimpsed the image of a setting sun tattooed on the soldier’s forehead.

  “So you’re—” Ned began.

  “Yes, sir, I am.” The soldier saluted. “Owens, oracle division.”

  “I didn’t know the Legion still—”

  “The program was discontinued, sir. Not cost effective.”

  “Are you—”

  “Completely blind, sir.”

  “Do you have—”

  “Yes, sir. Very annoying, I’m aware. But it’s a difficult habit to break.”

  Ned rubbed his eye. “Are you—”

  “I’m very good. Top of my class.”

  “Well, that’s impress—”

  “Thank you, but I feel I must acknowledge a limitation.”

  Ned opened his mouth, but the impatient oracle answered the question before it was asked.

  “Since losing use of my eyes, I can only hear the future.” The oracle flashed a proud grin. “But I hear it with an eighty-nine percent success rate.”

  This information had barely reached Ned’s brain when the oracle spoke again.

  “It still itches, sir, but a little ointment should take care of it. And thank you for your concern.”

  “What?”

  “My rash. That was what you were going to ask, wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure about that? Often we think we’re going to say one thing when in fact we end up saying another.”

  Ned replied, “I’m positive.”

  “My mistake, sir. When you’re right eighty-nine percent of the time, you’re wrong the other eleven percent.” He pointed to his nose. “I do smell the future with ninety-eight percent accuracy.”

  Owens answered before being asked. “No, so far it hasn’t proven very useful. Gods bless you, sir.”

  “I didn’t sneeze.”

  The oracle dug in his ear with his finger. “You will.”

  Ned moved to the next in line, a towering two-headed ogre. Such twins were rarely born, and they even more rarely survived adolescence, the tender formative years when ogres inclined toward their most perilously obnoxious. Puberty for the ogre race was a terrible ordeal involving gushing boils, boundless carnivorous appetite, and dangerously psychotic mood swings. Ogre youths were given lots of space during this stage, but two-headed specimens had little choice but to remain side by side. It didn’t take long for one to kill the other—and himself—in the process.

  The twins stood nine feet high if an inch and were nearly as wide. Their body was redder and hairier than those of single-headed ogres. The faces were similar but not identical. The one on the right had a fearsome overbite, and the one on the left had high-set, drooping ears. Still, it would’ve been obvious, even if they didn’t share one body, that the ogres were related.

  “Private Lewis and Corporal Martin,” said Gabel.

  They saluted with quick, military precision. They both began to speak, but stopped. Started again and stopped.

  Lewis nodded to his brother. “After you.”

  “Oh, no, after you,” replied Martin.

  “Please, dear brother, I insist.”

  “Not to be difficult, Lewis, but it is I who must insist.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Lewis bowed his head. “Clearly you were speaking first before I rudely interrupted. And it would be unseemly to speak before a ranking officer.”

  “Oh, no no no.” Martin put his hand to his side of their chest. “It’s perfectly obvious to me that you were the one interrupted. To which, rank or no rank, I can offer no valid excuse. Mother taught me better than that.”

  “Shut up,” commanded Ned. The words sounded odd attached to his voice. The curtness of it struck him strangely. But he was in charge here. He supposed it only appropriate that he started acting like it.

  Neither Lewis nor Martin seemed offended. Ned guessed their mother had taught them better than to question their superiors as well. The twins both tried speaking once more, but neither dared talk before the other.

  “You.” Ned pointed to Lewis. “What is it?”

  Lewis saluted crisply again. “I just wanted to say, sir, that it is an honor to serve under the famous Never Dead Ned.”

  Ned nodded to Martin. “Now you.”

  “As you wish, sir, but I see no need to reiterate what my dear brother has declared with such eloquence. Though I myself would’ve preferred the word ‘privilege’ over ‘honor.’”

  Lewis smacked his forehead. “Of course, how presumptuous of me. As always, dear brother, you have demonstrated your superior understanding of language.”

  “Don’t belittle your own grasp,” replied Martin.

  “You’re too kind, but it is obvious that I have overstepped myself with my poor word choice.”

  “Now, now, I’ll hear none of that.”

  Ned understood now why the twins had never gotten around to killing each other. They were too damn busy apologizing all the time. He left them to their atonements and moved to the next in line. The goblin was bright, leafy green, not the usual gray-green. And he had a shaggy red beard. Goblins didn’t grow hair normally.

  “This is Seamus,” said Gabel. “Faerie blood in his family, isn’t that right, Seamus?”

  “Yes, sir. My great-great-great-great-grandmother had a fling with a leprechaun. Quite scandalous. We don’t like talking about it.”

  “Seamus is a shapeshifter,” said Gabel. “Give the commander a demonstration.”

  The goblin disappeared into a blue cloud. When the cloud faded, a large, white cockatoo stood in his place. A green fog swallowed the bird, and Seamus became a fat, brown rat. A burst of yellow smoke later, he transformed into a boot. Then a skillet. Then a trumpet. Then an apple. And finally a bucket.

  Ned stood before the bucket a few seconds, but Seamus didn’t change into anything else.

  “I think he’s stuck, sir. Happens sometimes. Nothing to worry about.” Gabel nodded to the bucket. “Carry on, Seamus.”

  Fourth in line stood a long, white reptile. She was serpentine in form, fifteen feet long stretched out, but her body was coiled to a more reasonable six-foot height. Her limbs were short, four pairs in all. She stood on two pairs while her other two were folded. She radiated warmth, and the air shimmered around her. Her face was more like a cat than a reptile, and her two blue eyes sparkled in the dusky light. Little puffs of fire rose from her nostrils with each breath.

  Ned said, “I thought all the salamanders were destroyed after the Terrible Scorching.”

  “No, sir.” Flames erupted from her mouth as she spoke. Ned stepped back to avoid having his eyebrows charred. “Not all.”

  “What’s your name, private?” It wasn’t that he cared, but he was starting to feel like a commander, despite himself. And a commander should know his soldiers.

  “You couldn’t pronounce it with your thick, lumpy tongue, sir. They just call me Sally.” Salamanders changed colors with their moods. Ned knew the basic color codes. Red for anger. Purple for vanity. Green for envy. She turned a golden orange, and he had no idea what that meant. He made a mental note to check her file later to see if it listed the more obscure shades.

  “Good to have you on board, private,” said Ned with enthusiasm that surprised him. He nearly slapped her on the shoulder, but caught himself in time to avoid a nasty burn.

  She glowed a light purple. “Thank you, sir.”

  Next to last in line waited a short, treelike creature with a full head of yellowing leaves. The tree’s bark was scarred. Some of the carvings looked like old wounds, but most appeared intentional or decorative. Only one caught Ned’s eye. It read, “Don’t pick the apples.” A few arrow shafts were buried in the tree’s trunk. He was amusing himself by plucking the petals from a fresh, young rose. Most striking to Ned was the
burning cigarette pursed between the tree’s lips.

  “Private Elmer, sir,” said Gabel.

  Ned glanced the private up and down. It took him a moment to spot the tree’s eyes, two dark spots that might be mistaken for knots.

  “I didn’t know we had En—”

  “Treefolk, sir,” interrupted Elmer.

  “Treefolk. But I thought you called yourselves En—”

  “No, sir. We aren’t allowed to say that anymore.”

  “Why not?” asked Ned.

  “We just aren’t. A wizard put a spell on the word, so we don’t say it anymore.”

  “A spell?” said Ned. “But it’s just a word. Why would anyone want to put a spell on a word? What happens if you say it?”

  Elmer drew a puff on his cigarette. “You don’t want to know. Nothing too troublesome, but it’s just easier to avoid it.”

  “But treefolk?”

  “Well, we’re trees and we’re folk. Isn’t too imaginative, but it gets the job done.”

  Ned shrugged. “I’m surprised there’s any treefolk in the Legion. Didn’t think they’d take up the soldiering profession.”

  “Why is that, sir? Because I look like a bush, I gotta be all lovey-dovey, kissy-wissy. Is that what you’re saying, sir?”

  “No, it’s just . . .”

  “I was told the Legion didn’t believe in racial profiling, sir. I was told I would be judged by my ability to slaughter my enemies, not the texture of my bark.”

  “That’s not what I meant...”

  “Then what did you mean, sir?” Elmer plucked another petal from the rose. “What, pray tell, could you have possibly meant by that ill-informed, insulting remark?”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Ned.

  “Oh, I suppose that makes it all right then. You didn’t intend to verbalize your ignorance. As long as the slur was unintentional, I guess we needn’t worry about it. I guess I won’t need to file a grievance with my union then.” Snarling, Elmer dropped the flower to the ground and stomped on it with his roots.