Ned raised his club over his head. He took a step forward, but Frank made no move to defend himself.
“Uh, I’ m starting,” said Ned.
“I noticed.” But Frank remained in a perfectly relaxed posture.
Ned took another step. “Here I come.”
“Yes, sir. Although I would point out that in a real battle it’s unwise to announce your attack beforehand.”
“I know that.” Ned lowered his club. It was heavier than it looked, and he took a second to rest his arms. “Okay. Now I’m ready.”
Frank, hands behind his back, said nothing. Ned charged with a primal scream. He whipped the club up high, aiming a blow at Frank’s head, but reaching only as high as the ogre’s shoulder. Frank blocked with his forearm, and the club cracked in two. The force rattled Ned’s hands. He dropped the club and staggered off balance. Frank extended his index finger and pushed Ned over. He landed on his butt with an embarrassing thud.
“Not very good,” said Frank. “But not entirely bad.”
Ned remained sitting. “It wasn’t?”
“Not at all, sir.” Frank rubbed his forearm. “I felt that. So you’ve got some power. Of course, your offense is weak, and your defense is nonexistent. But no one is born knowing how to fight properly.” He pulled Ned to his feet. “Let’s try again, shall we? Use your sword this time.”
Ned rushed Frank. He aimed his blade at his opponent’s side, hoping to score a glancing blow for the sake of his pride. Frank simply knocked Ned aside again. It happened so fast, Ned couldn’t say how.
Somebody laughed.
Ned glanced around. “Who’s there?”
Elmer stepped forward. The short treefolk had blended in among the trees.
“How much did you see?” asked Ned.
“Enough to know you need a lot of work”—Elmer struck a match against his side and lit a cigarette—“and that this ogre isn’t going to be much help.”
“What do you mean by that?” said Frank.
“It’s just a fact.” Elmer blew a gray cloud that hovered over Ned’s head. “Ogres fight like ogres. Which is fine if you’re an ogre. But in case you didn’t notice, Ned is a human. And he needs to learn to fight like one.”
“I was going to ask Regina,” said Ned.
Elmer chuckled. “She wouldn’t do you much good either. Amazons aren’t human.”
“They aren’t?”
“No. They’re grown in melon patches. Or possibly carved from enchanted stone. Either way, they aren’t human. Can’t teach a human how to fight.”
Easily discouraged, Ned saw Elmer’s point.
“I’ve seen enough humans fight to understand the rudimentary concept,” said Frank.
“Such as?” asked Elmer.
Frank paused to think about it. “Well, there’s a lot of screaming. And squishing. They’re very squishy.”
“So as far as your experience goes, the basic technique of human warfare is to scream and be squished.”
Frank frowned. “Squishing avoidance was the first thing I planned on teaching Ned.”
“And then what?” asked Elmer. “The finer talent of crushing one’s opponents beneath tree trunks? When is the last time you even picked up a sword?”
“Just last week. I used it to pick my teeth.”
Ace, who’d been perched silently on the garden wall for the entire conversation, finally spoke up. “Squishing avoidance is a lot harder than it looks. Take it from an expert.”
So much for his private training session, realized Ned.
“Oh, please. What can a goblin teach about fighting?” asked Elmer.
“Fighting? Not much,” admitted Ace. “But I’m three years old. I think I know a thing or two about survival.”
It was true that the average goblin’s life span was measured in months, not years, and that Ace’s old age was an excellent recommendation.
“When it comes to the art of war, no fleshie matches the prowess of the plant world. Take a look at this garden.” Elmer swept his arms wide. “All around is a constant battle. The rosebushes struggle against the ivy. The ivy strangles the flower beds. Nature is in a constant conflict, and only the smartest, most persistent flora wins.”
“Ned is not a plant,” said Frank.
“He isn’t an ogre either,” replied Elmer. “Or a goblin.”
Ace hopped off the wall and onto Frank’s shoulder. “That doesn’t mean a goblin can’t teach him a thing or two.”
“Or an ogre,” said Frank.
“Or a treefolk,” said Elmer.
“It’s agreed then,” said Ace. “We’ll take turns tutoring him.”
They shook hands on it. Ned wasn’t entirely sure it was a good idea, but since no one bothered to ask him, he decided to go along. What was the worst that could happen?
A little under an hour later, his three tutors stood over Ned’s corpse splayed on the ground. His crushed limbs with their shattered bones bent in unnatural angles.
Ace lit up his pipe and exhaled a putrid yellow cloud. “I told you squashing avoidance was harder than it looked.”
Eighteen
NED’S TUTORS DECIDED that it would be better to leave Ned in the garden. He’d wanted his training to be secret, and trying to sneak his corpse back to his quarters seemed like more trouble than it was worth. If they were caught (which they probably wouldn’t be) and if someone cared enough to ask for the details (even more unlikely) a story would have to be invented as to how Ned had perished once again, and no one wanted to bother. Neither did they wish to wait for Ned to rise from the dead. So he was thrown into an overgrown flower bed and left for his latest resurrection. And there he stayed, quietly enjoying the agreeable state of death.
Birds descended on Copper Citadel at early evening. Flamingos and ibises, robins and red bishops, peacocks and finches, seagulls and drongos, figbirds and buntings, shrikes and woodpeckers, and a single bony ostrich. They covered the citadel like a fog. Not one soldier could remember seeing them arrive, but there they were. And every bird, regardless of species, was as bright red as fresh-spilled blood and deathly silent.
The soldiers whispered about dark powers at play, and gravedigger Ward had to stop up his nostrils to hold back the overpowering stench of magic. Aside from this, none gave it much thought. In Copper Citadel, everything was always someone else’s problem, and everyone left it for someone else to handle. “Let Ned deal with it,” was heard more than once, to which others nearby would nod their heads and get on with their business. Only Gabel paid special notice to the birds, and that was only long enough to fill out a Suspected Thaumaturgical Incident Report, which he dropped in his stack of outgoing mail before heading off to the pub.
The Red Woman’s magic was generally a subtle art. She had little use for fearsome explosions or howling winds. Such effects were merely pandering to an audience, the realm of courtly wizards and sideshow conjurers. Spectacle was contrary to her nature and her duties. Magic both preceded and followed her, and there were always signs of her passing. Little things that only the keenest eye might spot, or the most superstitious soul might fret over. But today she was annoyed, and today her magic showed itself. Though it was her power, albeit unconsciously, that summoned the monstrous brood, she found it more bothersome than anyone else. She was grateful to find the garden mostly empty of birds except for a pudgy scarlet penguin entangled in withering grapevines.
The Red Woman circled Ned’s body three times, casting only casual glances at it. He was dying far too often these days for her taste, but this wasn’t the sole cause of her annoyance. More troublesome dilemmas plagued her. She prodded him in the chest with her staff.
“Get up, get up.”
Groaning, he stirred to life. She walked to a bench and waited.
He rose. He glanced at the sorceress with mild interest, but said nothing as he dragged his stiff limbs to the bench and had a seat. He and the Red Woman were quiet for some time, neither having much to say. He was every bit as
annoyed with these constant deaths as she was, but neither deigned to comment on it just yet.
After a few minutes, he stretched the last bit of stiffness from his bad left arm and said, “Thank you.”
This surprised the Red Woman, but she hid it well. “Have you decided then that it would be better to be alive than dead?”
He thought about it, and there was no easy answer. “Not really. But for now, I think I’d rather be alive.”
“And why is that?”
Ned thought about this and found the answer a little easier. “I don’t know.” It was unclear but honest.
The Red Woman reached out with her gnarled hand and ran her fingers along the scars on Ned’s neck. There was tenderness in the caress beneath the scratchy, pointed nails. He was taken aback. She’d touched him before, but only briefly and never with any hint of affection.
“I don’t like you, Ned,” she said quietly as her hand fell to her side. She stood. “I don’t like who you were, and I don’t care much for who you are. But I believe it is possible that one day I might like who you will become.”
Having no idea what she meant, he just nodded.
The Red Woman simultaneously hobbled and glided her way across the garden, where she patted the scarlet penguin on its head. “I’m going to tell you a story. It’s a story about you. Let me just say that right out. But though you won’t understand much of it, I advise you to listen closely. And perhaps you’ll be able to explain it to me, since even I don’t understand it all.
“Long ago, in another age of another universe, there was a singularly powerful force of ultimate madness and boundless destructive might. This creature was unique in all the universes, but it’s easiest to just consider him a demon. But there had never been such a demon before, and fates help us, there shall never be another. Such was his awesome power that every other lord of every other hell bowed before him.
There was no match for him in heavens, earth, or hells. So powerful was he that even the endless bickering of devils and demons fell away, and this supreme demon, having assembled the greatest unholy army in the memory of eternity, set his sights on casting his universe into chaos, of scorching his world to ash from the pits of the damned to the palaces of the gods.”
“This is about me?” asked Ned.
“Let me finish. This demon, this Mad Void, succeeded in all these things. He did so without any trouble at all. There was some token resistance, a few minor battles here and there, a handful of heroic and futile last stands. But in the end there was never any question. The Mad Void laid low the gods, brought misery and pain to everything and everyone around him. He twisted his universe into an appalling mockery of agony and discontent. But though this had always been his goal, he found no satisfaction in the accomplishment. So in ultimate disgust he razed his universe into oblivion. Alone in the boundless darkness of his own creation, he sulked for untold millennia.”
“Can’t you just skip to the end?” asked the raven.
She could see he had a point. Ned’s gaze wandered around the garden with a hint of boredom, but the Red Woman refused to be rushed. The story was far too important. Her staff floated across the garden and rapped him soundly on the knuckles.
“Pay attention,” she commanded. “How long the Void brooded is difficult to say for time meant nothing to him, but eventually he discovered, either by design or luck, a whole other plane of existence awaiting his blessed touch. He wasted no time in invading this new universe. With even less difficulty than the last, he corrupted it, and finding himself again displeased, he destroyed it as well.”
Ned rubbed his bruised fingers. “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“You still haven’t figured it out?” said the raven.
“I guess not,” Ned admitted.
“Idiot, you’re the Mad Void.”
The Red Woman sighed. “I was saving that for the end of the story.”
“Oh, a dramatic presentation is wasted on Ned,” said the raven. “He’s too simple for that.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed.
They gave Ned a moment to absorb this idea, but he utterly failed. “I’m an all-powerful demon?”
“Not exactly,” she replied. “That’s why I was saving that bit for the end. It’s less complicated that way.”
“I think there’s been a mistake somewhere,” said Ned.
“Obviously,” agreed the raven.
“But I can’t be the Mad Void. I’ve never even heard of it.”
The Red Woman laughed. “There are many things which go unheard of. But that doesn’t make them any less real.”
“I think I’d remember destroying universes.”
She laughed again. “You would, Ned, but you’re a man. Or a reasonable facsimile of a man. But the Void existed only to destroy. For him, remembering all the realities he obliterated would be as reasonable as you recalling every ant you’ve ever stepped upon.”
He felt sick. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“You don’t,” she confirmed, “but you must. Don’t judge what you once were too harshly. The Mad Void devoured universes because it was his nature. One can’t blame a wolf for springing upon a helpless doe or flames for consuming a forest. These are the trials of fang and blood that all things must endure in some form or another. The death of a universe is no less tragic, yet no less necessary in a grander understanding.”
“Less metaphysical,” said the raven. “You’re going to lose him again.”
But Ned heard every word, and he didn’t like any of it. The Red Woman continued.
“In due course, the Void stumbled upon our realm of existence. By then he’d grown weary of his role in the great scheme. All his destruction, his slaughter and madness, had brought him no comfort. So he did the only thing he could.”
She hobbled her way to Ned’s side, laying a hand on his shoulder.
“He decided to change his nature. Understand, Ned, that this was unprecedented. In the history of our universe, and I assume nearly every other as well, no demon has sought redemption. I believe they all crave it in some form, though they’d never admit it. Just one of the reasons they’re so unpleasant. But the Void wasn’t just a demon; he was something more. And perhaps all his success and its related weariness allowed him a glimpse of his flawed character. Perhaps all demons might benefit from scorching a universe or two.”
The Red Woman’s voice trailed off, and she stared off into the distance. To Ned it seemed as if she wasn’t looking through the garden’s walls, but piercing the veil separating universes. Probably just his imagination, but he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. She turned her dull cerise eyes on him, and she seemed to look at him and through him at the same time.
“Once the decision was made, the Mad Void realized that, powerful as he was, he would need help. He sought out a cabal of gods who’d taken on guardianship of this realm, and though their combined magic was nothing compared to his, he asked for their help. This is where the story gets rather vague, I’m afraid. Forbidden magics were invoked. Many immortals perished in these experiments. Many more sacrificed their sanity. For it was acknowledged that if the Void couldn’t be changed, then inevitably his malevolent essence would be turned upon our reality, just as thousands of doomed others before.”
“Thousands?” interrupted Ned.
“No one truly knows. Possibly it was only a few dozen.” Her voice trembled. “Possibly tens of thousands. Or millions.”
Ned wasn’t very imaginative, but the notion of even one destroyed universe filled him with dread. He couldn’t handle the idea of millions. How many billions upon billions had the Mad Void—had he—cast into oblivion?
“They should’ve destroyed me,” he said.
“They tried. They transformed the Void. Don’t ask me how. I don’t think anyone truly understood the process. It was mostly blind luck, overpowering magic, and a happy accident. The Void’s memory was suppressed. They separated him from his dreadful migh
t, laid aside in some secret place even they couldn’t find, and he was made into a man. Of sorts.
“This was when they hoped to kill him. And so they did. Unfortunately the demon’s immortality was beyond godhood. To kill him was only to slay his mortal transformation. Death only returned him to his all-powerful form. Once more, great gods perished until the accident was, through sheer temerity, re-created.”
“Wait a minute,” said Ned. “I’ve been killed dozens of times. I keep coming back as me, not some raging demon.”
“A technicality was discovered.” she explained. “If the Void was resurrected from a source other than his own, then he remained a man. A guardian was appointed to watch over the Void. Her sole purpose in this task was to restore the demon to life with her own magic whenever necessary. It was her job to keep the cage door shut by insuring he never found the motive to open it. In this way the Void was repressed, if not truly tamed.”
As Ned considered this, he studied his hands. He balled them into fists and imagined crushing worlds, then solar systems, then whole universes as if they were old parchments full of scribbles he no longer had use for.
“I suppose you’re wondering why they didn’t lock you up?” asked the Red Woman. “Cast you in some pit where you could be kept safe from harm, properly tended until the end of time?”
He wasn’t inclined to wonder, and he still hadn’t adjusted to what he’d just learned.
“They tried that too. The Void grew irritated, and when displeased, you can do appalling things.”
“Like what?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“No,” he replied instantly.
She smiled with some hint of affection. “If it’s any consolation it was a very small continent, and no one misses it anymore.”
Ned sank. He slouched, defeated, burdened suddenly by a guilt so heavy it nearly crushed him into the earth.
“I’m not happy,” he said, realizing the situation. “How come I’m not destroying things now?”
She sat beside him. “You have lived a thousand lifetimes, Ned, and only in these last few have you been you. In all the others, which you do not remember, you were someone else. You’ve been kings and peasants, warriors and milkmaids, assassins and priests. I’ve been beside you the entire time. I’ve been at the beginning and end of each incarnation. And each was unique except for one constant. Even when surrounded by wealth and power, or peace and quiet, or any and all things a man might desire in between, they were all quietly miserable.”
In the Company of Ogres Page 16
