In the Company of Ogres

by Martinez A. Lee

  “I’m not a goblin.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Regina. “Maybe the midwives had a mix-up.”

  “In the first place, orcs don’t have midwives. In the second, I’m not a damn goblin.”

  Frank bent close and squinted. “It’s just that you look an awful lot like a goblin.”

  “Orcs and goblins look alike. They’re related specimens.”

  “Yeah, but every orc I’ve known was grayish blue. Whereas you’re more of a grayish green.”

  “And your ears are very big.” Regina illustrated the size with her hands apart.

  “Not to mention there’s not a hair on your body,” added Frank.

  “I shave.”

  “Well, that’s not very orcish either.”

  Gabel jumped on the table. Even standing on it, his five-foot frame wasn’t especially impressive. Though he was in fine shape, his was a lithe muscularity. Orcs generally had great, dense bodies. And not one stood under six feet.

  Gabel put his hand on his sword. “The next one who calls me a goblin gets run through.”

  “Is ‘through’ a participle?” asked Regina. “Did he just dangle a participle?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Frank.

  “‘Through’ is a preposition.” Huffing, Gabel hopped off the table. “Not that I’d expect anyone else in this pub to know.”

  “It’s not racism,” said Regina. “It’s sexism. I should be in charge, but men are too threatened by a powerful woman.” She flexed her bulging bicep, then drew her knife and jammed it handle deep through the thick wooden table with one strike. “It doesn’t help any that I’m flawlessly beautiful. That only threatens them more.”

  Frank and Gabel chuckled.

  She sneered. “Do you disagree?”

  “Oh, you’re beautiful,” said Gabel, “but I think it’s a little much to say you’re flawless.”

  “Someone’s got a high opinion of herself,” Frank pretended to say to a passing soldier who hadn’t been privy to the conversation.

  Regina’s cold, black eyes darkened. “What’s wrong with me?”

  The orc and the ogre glanced at one another. “Nothing,” they said in unison.

  “It’s just, well, you’re a bit ... how do I put this?” asked Frank.

  “Manly,” said Gabel.

  Regina threw her mug at him, but he ducked out of the way.

  “Do these look manly?” She arched her back to emphasize her ample bosom. “Or this?” She undid the knot atop her head, and a golden cascade of silken hair tumbled past her shoulders. “Or this?” She pulled back her skirt to show her long, perfectly proportioned leg. Some of the nearby soldiers leered.

  She grabbed the closest orc by the neck and drew him close to her snarling lips. “Am I not a vision of feminine magnificence?”

  He nodded and gulped.

  Her sneer deepened. “Would you not give both your eyes for a single hour alone with me?”

  He hesitated, and she tightened her grip.

  “Maybe one eye,” the orc answered.

  “Only one?”

  He winced apologetically. “I prefer brunettes.”

  Regina tossed him across the pub. She shouted to the room. “Who here thinks I’m the most beautiful woman they’ve ever seen?”

  The pub fell silent. Finally a soldier dared raise his hand. She stalked over, thanked him, and knocked him out with a brutal uppercut.

  Frank chortled. “Not manly at all.”

  “I’m an Amazon warrior, not some barmaid to be ogled.”

  “First you get upset that we don’t notice how beautiful you are,” said Gabel. “Then you get upset when we do.”

  “Now that’s more like a woman.” Frank snorted. He helped himself to a leg of lamb being carried past the table, and as he was very large, even for an ogre, no one protested. “You’re half right, Gabel. There’s racism at work here.” He bit off half the leg, chewing with loud crunches. Bits of mutton and bone spewed from his mouth as he spoke. “If you think orcs have it bad, try being an ogre.”

  Gabel eyed the lumps of meat floating atop his ale. With a shrug, he drank it down. It wasn’t bad, although he could have done without the ogre spit.

  Frank ran his thick, black tongue across his thick, gray teeth. “Do you know how many ogres have command positions in the Legion? None.”

  “Surely you don’t think you deserve the promotion?” Regina struggled to put her shimmering, flaxen hair back up.

  “And why not? I’m the highest ranking ogre here. And this is Ogre Company.”

  “Only ogres can command ogres? Is that what you’re saying?” asked Regina.

  “That sounds a little racist,” said Gabel.

  “It’s not about that.” Frank belched, and something sailed from his throat to land across the room and slither away into the darkness. “It’s about demonstration of advancement opportunities.”

  “Let’s just agree we’re all getting screwed.” Gabel sighed.

  They banged their mugs together.

  “So who’s the new guy?” asked Frank.

  “Never Dead Ned.”

  “I thought he was just a story.”

  “Apparently not.”

  Frank grumbled. “How are we supposed to kill a guy who can’t die?”

  Regina gave up on her hair, letting it fall back down. One scarred soldier couldn’t help but stare at her beautiful locks. She rose, walked over, and broke his nose, then sat back down. “He can die.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Frank. “I mean, it’s right there in his name. First two words: Never Dead.”

  “He’s a man.” She spat out the word. “All men are mortal. Hence Ned must be mortal.”

  “Not to fault your syllogism,” said Gabel, “but I’ve looked over his file.”

  “What’s a syllogism?” asked Regina. She was in a quarrelsome mood and not willing to overlook a chance to be offended.

  “A syllogism is a deductive scheme of formal argument consisting of a major and minor premise and a conclusion.”

  Frank squinted skeptically at Gabel. “You’re making that up.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Gabel. “It’s basic philosophy. I read it in a book.”

  “Reading,” said Frank. “Not very orcish.”

  Gabel pretended not to hear that.

  Regina’s hard eyes glinted. “No man, mortal or immortal, is a match for an Amazon. He’ll die. We’ll find a way.”

  The officers shared a chuckle.

  Gabel stood. “I better get going. New commander arrives in fifteen minutes. His trusted first officer should be there to greet him.”

  They shared a chuckle over that too. After he’d left, the remaining officers ordered another round.

  “Syllogism, indeed. I still say he’s a goblin,” remarked Regina.

  Frank shrugged. “Some people can never be comfortable with themselves.”

  “Poor fools.”

  Then the Amazon knocked a troll flat on his ass for daring to glance at her breasts.

  Putting harnesses on rocs and using them as transports was an experiment in Brute’s Legion with mixed results. Gabel would’ve used titan dragonflies. They were easier to tame, easier to ride, even a little faster. The Higher Ups, whoever the hell was in charge of such things, wanted the regal, reptilian birds with their vibrant red and gold plumage, their fearsome shrieks. And that was how a perfectly good idea had gone to hell.

  Rocs just weren’t tamable. The most that could be done with them was to keep them fed and try not to irritate them. When they weren’t hungry or annoyed, they mostly behaved. Unless it was mating season. Or they heard a loud noise. Or something shiny drew their attention. Or they smelled a chicken. Or they thought they smelled a chicken. Or they just felt like stomping something under their tremendous feet. For such immense creatures, they were terribly jumpy.

  Gabel glanced through the sky. The flight was ten minutes late. Might be a normal delay. Might mean the transport had gotte
n hungry and stopped for a snack. This wouldn’t be the first new officer to be devoured before he reached the fortress.

  Goblins staffed the roc program and nearly every other project that required personnel equally fearless and expendable. Their bold obtuseness was fortunate. Otherwise, the way they bred, they’d have overrun the world long ago.

  Gabel stopped a goblin passing by. This one wore a helmet with the crest of a pilot squadron. Gabel didn’t recognize the design. Either The Flying Brunches or Stubborn Chewables. This particular pilot had three scratches on his helmet, signifying he’d successfully flown a roc into the air and back again three times without perishing. That qualified him as a seasoned veteran.

  “Yes, sir!” The pilot saluted sloppily, but Gabel ignored that.

  “Any news on the commander?”

  “No, sir!” The pilot shouted. “But I’m sure he’s fine, sir!”

  Gabel looked to the pens. Four rocs paced about. Their long serpentine tails whipped up clouds of dust. Their merciless eyes glared. The biggest bird, about thirty-five feet high, nipped at another. The attacked roc shrieked and nipped back. Instantly all four monsters were busy shrieking and tearing at one another. Stains of dried blood and immense feathers from previous squabbles littered the pen.

  Three goblins rushed into the pen with their long barbed sticks. “Calmer Downers” in roc-handler terminology. One handler was crushed beneath a bird’s clumsy step. A second was snatched up and swallowed. Several more handlers replaced them, and after about a minute of furious screaming and terrified yelping, the rocs relaxed. The two goblins that hadn’t been eaten or mashed in the process exited the pen with wide, satisfied smiles.

  They’d never get Gabel near one of those damn things.

  The pilot sensed his trepidation. “One day, roc flight will be the safest form of travel, sir!”

  There wasn’t the slightest trace of doubt in his words. Gabel admired the eternal optimism of goblins, even if he hated being mistaken for one.

  “I wouldn’t worry about the commander, sir! Ace is our best pilot, sir!”

  Gabel stepped back. The goblin’s shouting was beginning to bother his ears. “How many flights has he had?”

  “Seven, sir!”

  Gabel was impressed. “He must be good.”

  “Yes, sir! He really knows what he’s doing! Plus, rocs don’t really like the taste of him, sir! Swallowed him three times, sir! Spat him out every time, sir!”

  “How lucky for him.” Gabel waved the goblin away. “You’re dismissed.”

  The pilot saluted again. “Thank you, sir!”

  By the time the ringing had gone out of Gabel’s ears, the roc finally appeared in the sky. Its flight was surprisingly smooth, its tremendous wings beating with power and grace. But the landing was the hardest part. Its grace in the air was countered by its clumsiness on the ground.

  The pilot whipped the reins, spurring the roc into a sharp dive. Just when it looked certain the bird would crash into the earth, it pulled up and set down without a stumble. Handlers threw a rope up to the pilot, who tied it around the roc’s collar. He slid down the rope with a grin.

  Ace was short, even for a goblin—a little over two feet. Nonetheless, he cut a dashing, carefree figure. Almost heroic. He raised his goggles, threw back his long scarf. One of his ears was missing, probably having been snipped off by a roc. Or maybe something else. Goblins lived dangerous lives.

  “Sir.” He didn’t salute, only drew his knife and cut another notch into his helmet. The pipe clamped between his teeth stank of some foul herb Gabel couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, it reeked of rotten flesh and spoiled fruit. Little wonder rocs didn’t want to eat him.

  A voice called from the bird’s back. “Excuse me? How do I get down?”

  “Well, you could jump!” shouted Ace. “Or you could use the ladder! Your call.”

  A rope ladder descended one side, and Ned started down. He was halfway to the ground when a scampering squirrel darting past startled the roc. The beast twisted, lost its balance, and tumbled over. Gabel and Ace were well out of squishing range, but Ned wasn’t so lucky. The crash of three tons of bird flesh cut short his fearful yelp. The roc took some time before wobbling to its feet.

  Gabel approached the crushed commander. “Damn, what a mess.”

  “He looked like that before,” said Ace, “except his neck didn’t bend that way.”

  “Sir?” Gabel prodded Ned. “Sir?”

  “Pretty sure he’s dead.” Ace kicked the corpse.

  “But this is Never Dead Ned.”

  “Guess they’ll have to change his name to Distinctly Dead Ned.” Ace booted the body a second time, hopped on its chest a few times, and waggled the broken neck. “Yep, that’s dead a’right.”

  Gabel frowned.

  Then he smiled. It was nice when problems solved themselves.

  Three

  COPPER CITADEL DIDN’T have a proper graveyard. Its population consisted mostly of ogres, ores, and goblins, all of whom considered a corpse, at worst, something to trip over and, at best, ammunition for a stimulating game of Catapult the Cadaver, a popular orc drinking game. But a few humans were stationed at the citadel, and as it was official policy of Brute’s Legion to respect all cultures, even the absurdity of humans, there was a rudimentary cemetery set aside in a useless patch of dirt.

  Two ogres, Ward and Ralph, were the official gravediggers. The position added a few coins to their wages. They could’ve done a poor job of it, and none but the dead would’ve cared. But Ward took some small pride in his work, and that rubbed off a little on Ralph. They were both typical ogre specimens: tall, wide, ruddy, hairy creatures with broad mouths and tiny, close-set eyes. Ralph was a little hairier than Ward, and Ward was a little taller. That was the biggest difference between them.

  Ralph scooped out another shovel of dirt and glanced at the setting sun. “It’s getting dark. That’s deep enough.”

  Ward shrugged. “I don’t know. Doesn’t look as deep as the last commander.”

  “That’s because I liked that guy.”

  “You might’ve liked this guy, Ralph.”

  They studied Ned’s corpse with its bulging eye and purplish tongue hanging from blue lips.

  Ralph frowned. “Looks like an asshole to me.”

  “They all look like that when they’re dead.”

  Ralph picked Ned up by one leg and dangled the corpse. “Yeah, but what kind of idiot calls himself Never Dead Ned, then goes and dies?”

  “Asshole,” they said as one.

  Ralph tossed the body in the hole. It didn’t take long for the heavyset gravediggers to finish the burial. Dark clouds spread overhead. A few heavy drops of rain fell. Ward jammed a simple tombstone into place.

  “That’s nice,” complimented Ralph. “When did you make it?”

  “Soon as I heard the new commander was coming. Didn’t think I’d have to use it so soon.”

  In the unadorned cemetery, ten graves stretched beside Ned’s. Each stone bore the name of a dead human commander of Ogre Company. There’d been other casualties of the job, but only the humans needed to be buried. The ores had been used as roc chow. An elf had been burned on a pyre. There’d been a dwarf too, but he’d been torn to so many pieces that no one wanted to bother picking them all up. So Ralph and Ward had never learned how dwarves liked their corpses handled.

  “Is it me, or are we going through these guys faster than we used to?” asked Ralph.

  “It’s you. Although this one’s got to be the record. Hold on a second. I’ve got to fix something here.” Ward pulled a chisel and mallet from his belt and chipped an X through the “Never” in Never Dead Ned.

  “Should we say some words?” asked Ward.

  “Do we have to?” asked Ralph.

  “Humans seem to like that kind of thing.”

  The approaching storm thundered. “Fine. But let’s make it quick.” Ralph’s nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. “I smell rain.
And magic. Dark magic.”

  Rare ogres were born with a talent for smelling magic. The gift had never been proven to any of the other races, but ogres accepted it as fact.

  “What’s dark magic smell like?” asked Ward.

  Ralph drew in another snort. “Strawberries and cream.” He wiped the rain from his eyes. “Get on with it.”

  Ward started to say something, then stopped. He started again and stopped.

  “Well?” asked Ralph.

  “I didn’t know the guy.”

  “I’ll do it.” Ralph sighed. “Here lies another human. I didn’t know him, but he didn’t do anything to me so I guess he was all right. He was still a human though, and most of them are jerks. Except that one guy whose name I can’t remember now.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Ward, “the fat one.”

  “Not that one. I’m talking about that short one.”

  “They’re all short.”

  “True, but this one was especially short.”

  “Oh, yeah, the short one. He was a good guy,” agreed Ward. “Too bad about that guy.”

  “Anyway,” continued Ralph, “I doubt this guy was as good as that guy, but maybe he was. Probably not. Probably was an asshole. But maybe not.”

  A clap of thunder ended the ceremony.

  “That was beautiful, Ralph.”

  The two ogres loped their way toward the citadel to escape the threatening rain. The rumbling clouds swirled in the blackened sky. The wind howled, but the downpour never came, only a few drops.

  The woman stood by Ned’s grave. She might’ve appeared there. Or just as possibly, she’d walked up unnoticed. She was a small, wiry figure with a bent back, dressed all in red.

  Her cloak was crimson, her dress a sharp scarlet. Her long hair was sanguine, and her skin a pale cerise. A vermilion raven perched on her shoulder. She clutched a gnarled maroon staff in an equally gnarled hand. She raised it over her head and gathered the magic necessary to raise the dead.