In the Company of Ogres

by Martinez A. Lee

  Ned rose. “You think I want to feel bad? I know I deserve to suffer.”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you’re thinking it.” He pointed at her accusingly, as if this were all her fault somehow. “I’m punishing myself for all the damage I’ve done. It’s like some sort of penance. Endless, pointless, aching penance.”

  “If that’s the case,” she said, “then it’s more a matter of what you think than I, isn’t it?”

  “Why did you have to tell me this?”

  “You wanted to know.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Too late for that. Besides, you already knew it. You’ve always known, deep down inside yourself. I’ve merely forced you to finally admit it.”

  “I thought you said you were joking when you said the fate of the world depended on me.”

  “I was. It doesn’t depend on you. It depends on something inside of you.”

  “Can’t you just erase my memory? That shouldn’t be too hard.”

  She stood, leaning heavily on her staff as if her legs could barely support her, and put her fingers to his forehead. “It could be done, but it must be known. You must know.”

  Her face went blank. She hobbled away and spoke with her back to him.

  “Because they’re coming.”

  As one, the flock of crimson birds took to the air, darkening the skies over Copper Citadel. The fort became nothing but blackened shadows in the consuming gloom.

  “Who?” he asked.

  In the blackness the Red Woman spoke softly. “Your enemies, Ned.”

  “I have enemies?”

  She chuckled. She waved her staff in a small circle, and the thousands of birds dispersed to the four winds, gone as if they’d never been there. Except for the penguin, who remained earthbound and had no choice but to waddle its way from the garden toward the citadel gates.

  “You have had many, accumulated over a thousand lifetimes. But there are only two you need concern yourself with now. The first, most important one is a demon emperor. He comes for your power, hoping to take it for his own. Whether he has any hope of success, I couldn’t say. But he is still a potent force of destruction. I shudder to think what would happen should he find a way.

  “The second is a trifling matter in the greater view. His name is Belok, an old wizard of some small talent. In a previous incarnation you were a wizard too, and the pair of you got into some sort of ridiculous affair of honor. The matter ended with your death and a curse upon Belok that he struggles in vain to break. He understands something of what you are, but not enough. It could make him troublesome.”

  A cold wind swept across the fort. The Red Woman pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

  “And I do believe he has finally arrived. A touch later than I expected.”

  The wind died down, but the air grew frigid. Ned’s breath crystallized as he spoke. “Now? He’s coming now?”

  The Red Woman didn’t bother replying. She pointed her staff skyward, and a contingency of ghostly maidens poured from the clouds. They screeched and howled, chanting the name of their master.

  “Belok! Belok! Belok!”

  The Red Woman groaned. It was always such a production.

  The phantoms formed a column of writhing bodies and tangled hair. Their spectral forms turned to dragons, then tigers, then serpents. They sparkled brilliantly, and Ned covered his eyes. When he could finally look, he saw a fur-faced, duck-billed wizard standing before him. His ghostly paramours caressed him tenderly as others broke away and floated absently around the garden. The plants withered and died at their touch.

  Ned stood frozen. He pretended to believe it was some ghastly enchantment that held him in place, but it was nothing of the sort. Neither was it fear nor awe. It was shock, not for the wizard, but for the way everything in his life had suddenly become infinitely more incomprehensible.

  “Hello, Belok,” said the Red Woman.

  Belok snapped his bill. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just visiting.”

  He snapped his bill again for good measure. “What tricks are you devising, witch?”

  “No tricks. Just a test.”

  “Come then. Test my might and die.”

  “I didn’t say I was testing you,” she replied, seating herself at the bench.

  Belok turned his beady eyes on Ned. The wizard raised his hands, and boiling lava dripped from his fingertips. “Break my curse. Break it, or suffer eternally.”

  Ned swallowed a gulp. “I don’t know anything about curses.”

  “Don’t lie to me.” The phantoms seized Ned by his collar and sleeves and carried him to their master.

  “I’m not.” Ned shuddered in the cold embrace of the ghosts. “I’m not a wizard. Or a demon. I’m just a man.”

  The Red Woman smiled.

  “Your body may have changed,” said Belok, “but you can’t change your true nature.” The phantoms carried Ned to the Red Woman and deposited him harshly at her feet. “Change him back,” commanded Belok of the sorceress. “Find the wizard inside him, and change him back.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t give me that. You’re his keeper.”

  “Just because I keep him alive doesn’t mean I can force him to do anything. The magic at work is beyond my ken. And yours. You’d do best to leave it alone.”

  Belok ignored the advice, as she knew he must. Just as the Mad Void couldn’t change his nature, neither could the wizard.

  “If you’re not going to help me, step aside,” he ordered.

  The Red Woman waved her hand at Ned. “As long as you do not kill him, I don’t care what you do to him.”

  Belok’s phantoms snatched Ned into the air again. He struggled vainly. His hand grabbed hold of the Red Woman’s staff.

  “You’re supposed to watch over me,” he said. “It’s your job.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” said the raven, “have some dignity, man.” The bird pecked at the straining fingers, and Ned was tossed through the air by the malignant spirits.

  “Do try and take care of yourself, Ned,” said the Red Woman.

  The phantoms held Ned by his ankles. Upside down, his head filling with blood, his ears thundering, and his vision blurred, he watched the Red Woman hobble from the garden, leaving him to his fate.

  “I can’t do anything,” he said. “I don’t know any magic.”

  Belok gestured and his phantoms raised Ned high enough to peer into the wizard’s golden eyes. “It’s inside you. Somewhere it’s all inside of you. Everything you’ve ever been. If I dig deep enough, if I strip away every other false skin, I think I can find what I’m looking for.” He raised a hand with blackened skin and webbed fingers and ran his sharpened nails across Ned’s flesh. “I do hope this hurts.”

  Ned should’ve screamed then. He didn’t. Something held him back. He still wasn’t afraid.

  He wasn’t a man, he mused. He was the Mad Void. He was the most powerful destructive force in this or any other universe. He should be able to destroy Belok without even trying. So why didn’t he? Why was he just floating there helplessly as the wizard prepared to skin him alive both physically and metaphysically?

  Because he deserved it. He deserved every bit of it and more.

  He could’ve called for help. He could’ve pleaded for mercy. He didn’t do these things either. He just waited for his punishment. No matter how bad it was, it would never make up for what he’d done.

  Belok raked his claws across Ned’s forehead. Blood trickled down his scalp to drip from his hair. He winced. He cried. But he didn’t cry out.

  Then came the next thought. What if there had been a mistake somewhere? What if he wasn’t the Void, but just Ned? What if he was paying for someone else’s sins? Either way it all seemed so pointless.

  “Hurting me won’t solve anything,” he said, surprised by his calmness.

  “On the contrary,” replied the wizard, “it will at least mak
e me feel better.”

  The phantoms rotated Ned and planted his feet on the cobblestones but still held him tight. Belok licked the blood on his claws with a tiny purple tongue. “I may not be able to kill you, but I can do many distasteful things. Perhaps I’ll start by removing your other eye. Perhaps knowing you’re spending eternity in perpetual darkness would cheer me up.” He moved a claw toward Ned’s eye.

  Ned cringed. He bit his lip in preparation for pain. Over and over the thought ran through his mind: he deserved this. At least he hoped he did. It was the only comfort he could find, and it’d be a terrible shame if a mistake had been made and the Mad Void was currently a thousand miles away enjoying a nice cup of tea.

  A bolt of lightning knocked Belok away and sent his phantom entourage howling with rage.

  “Who dares strike Belok?” moaned the phantoms in a musical shriek. “What fool dares clash magic against Belok?”

  The Red Woman lowered her staff. “Really, Belok. Always so melodramatic.” She swung the smoking staff in a few wide circles. Rumbling clouds swirled overhead. “You’d do well to get behind me, Ned.”

  He didn’t have to be told twice.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?” the raven asked the Red Woman. “It’s been a while since you’ve faced a wizard in battle.”

  She stamped her staff twice, and the earth rumbled. “It’s like riding a horse. One never forgets.”

  “Have you ever ridden a horse?” said the raven.

  “I don’t recall.”

  The raven flew from her shoulder and perched on the wall. “Think I’ll sit this one out over here.”

  Belok’s golden aura darkened to a bloody copper. A small sphere of fire appeared between his outstretched hands.

  “Fireballs?” The Red Woman held up her own wrinkled palm, and materialized a red and white fury. “Not very original, Belok.”

  “I don’t waste my A material on piddling witches.” Belok’s flames grew larger and larger. He pitched one of his phantoms into it, and the blaze blackened, feeding on the ghost’s agony as her screams darkened the air itself. The power struggled in his grasp, yet it grew larger still. As large as the wizard who’d created it. The Red Woman’s fireball remained conveniently palm-sized.

  “Is that all you’ve got to show me?” mocked Belok.

  Chuckling, she balanced her magic sphere on one withered finger. Funny how most wizards, even one of Belok’s experience and power, made the same mistake. They always thought it came down to who had the biggest balls.

  Nineteen

  AFTER LEAVING NED in the garden, Frank was invited to play a game of goblin crush. It was a favorite among those who enjoyed equal parts skill, violence, and luck in their sports. Teams of goblins were arranged on a playing field with miniature terrain. They were given equipment to emulate different military units. And then the players (or generals, as they were called) took turns maneuvering their goblins, either jockeying for the high ground, or attempting to reach a flag, or often just beating the hell out of the other army until all the soldiers on one side were eliminated or the goblins got bored and wandered off.

  Goblins generally enjoyed the game. The armaments were largely symbolic, and rarely were casualties real. Although when fatal accidents happened, as they sometimes did, it was the goblins themselves who were most impressed. It took a great deal of skill to brain a thick-skulled goblin with a paper-thin wooden sword.

  There were goblin crush courts in use by some royalty that had actual miniature fortresses and rivers and simulated cities, but Copper Citadel’s was an improvised affair. Barrels and plants were placed here and there. There was a high mound of rocks for a hill. It got the job done.

  Frank was company champion. He rarely lost. Part of this was due to a natural talent for tactics, partly due to the generally poor skill of his opponents. But the most important part was that Frank bought the drinks for his winning army, which granted his goblins just enough incentive to fight a little better, a little longer. And it held their attention so that usually the other team was the first to wander off.

  Presently he engaged Gabel in heated combat, though the game had experienced a brief timeout when all those birds had appeared. Gabel was no slouch in the game. Frank’s army was pinned down behind some barrels, and he was having a devil of a time getting them out of there. He was considering his next move when Gabel observed, almost as if the thought had just occurred to him, although Frank knew better, that Ned had been curiously absent for the past few hours.

  “I wonder what happened to him?” said the orc.

  “Must be off somewhere,” said Frank.

  “Last I saw him, he was wandering away with you, wasn’t he?”

  Frank grunted.

  “I hope he’s okay,” remarked Gabel.

  Frank grunted again. He ordered a unit out in the open, two strides toward more cover. One of the enemy archers aimed true, and a padded arrow socked the unit right in the eye. Frank shrugged. He hadn’t expected it to work. He still had his Ace though.

  Ace was a good player, but only if he got to play a behemoth hound or a giant or some other titanic creature. He now sported a pair of wings and a horn strapped to his head to symbolize his current stature as a fire-breathing dragon. He lurked, reptilian, behind some trees, waiting for the order to strike.

  Gabel skipped his turn, holding his army in place. “You wouldn’t have any idea what happened to Ned, would you?”

  Frank scowled. “I killed him, okay? I killed him. But it was an accident.”

  “I’m sure it was,” said Gabel.

  Frank turned his attention to the game. He suspected Gabel was only bringing this up to distract him, but it worked. “He wanted my help. So I helped him. And then I accidentally crushed him.”

  “Is that so?” asked Gabel, smiling innocently.

  “It wasn’t on purpose. Humans are very easy to crush.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  Frank glowered. “Are you saying I crushed him intentionally?”

  “I don’t believe I’m saying anything,” replied Gabel. “It’s your turn. The armies are getting bored.”

  Ace slinked impatiently behind the tree. He uttered a low, grumbling imitation of a hungry growl. When he played a dragon, he played it very well. But Frank kept Ace safely behind cover and moved a cavalry unit. The goblin took a hit, which according to the rules reduced him to infantry. With a great show of disappointment, he threw aside his hobbyhorse.

  Gabel made a show of studying the field this time. He never took his eyes off it as he spoke. “But some people might think it’s an awfully strange coincidence that the man your woman likes should be crushed by you. It does look suspicious. If one were of a suspicious sort.”

  Frank mumbled, “She’s not my woman. And I don’t care if she does like him, although even if she did, it would surely be a mild attraction, a passing fancy. And even if I did care, I wouldn’t crush Ned for that reason alone. If I’d wanted to crush him. Which I did not.”

  “Of course.” Gabel’s artillery units tossed several rubber balls into the air. The rounds pinged off several of Frank’s units, removing them from the game. Except for the berserkers, who took off their blue “calm” hats and put on their red “angry” ones. Which was exactly what Frank had been waiting for.

  He should’ve smiled, but he was too distracted by other thoughts. Try as he might, he wasn’t convinced he hadn’t killed Ned on purpose, even if he had done so subconsciously. As a young recruit, he’d slain a handful of soldiers in boot camp. Orcs, thick-boned, didn’t crack easily, and trolls, naturally squishy, usually just popped back into shape. But humans were far less hardy, and elves, they snapped like twigs. But Frank had learned how to handle these delicate species, and it’d been years since he’d squished anything by accident—except for goblins, who hardly counted. If Ned’s death was an accident, it was inexcusable. And if it was on purpose, it was even more so because Frank liked Ned, and Frank
had a strict “No Friend” squishing policy.

  “It’s your turn,” said Gabel in a singsong voice.

  Frank wasn’t sure if Gabel was a friend or not anymore, and put him on the indeterminate squishing list for the moment.

  “Where did that storm come from?” observed Gabel as angry clouds spread over the citadel.

  “Stop trying to distract me.”

  The ogre waved his hand. His army knew what to do. The berserkers, shouting, battle-ax-shaped cushions held high, actually foaming at the mouth, charged forth as Ace, flapping his arms and thrashing his artificial tail, soared in from another direction. Gabel’s catapults were empty. His archers were useless, as arrows had no effect on berserkers with red hats or on roaring dragons. Gabel’s knights stepped forward to meet the enemy. And Ace, with a terrible roar—terrible for a goblin’s throat anyway—swallowed half a jug of wine, put a funnel to his lips, and prepared to breathe fire.

  Then Copper Citadel exploded. Not the whole citadel, just the garden. In a tremendous, seething blast its walls were blown to dust. The force of the explosion knocked everyone except Frank off their feet. The towering ogre first wondered just what had been in Ace’s wine, then marveled at the clouds of ash and heat where the garden had once stood, and then noticed a screaming figure plummeting earthward, coming straight at him. All Frank had to do was sidestep with open arms to catch it, which he did.

  Ned, covered in black and singed around the edges, sputtered in the ogre’s arms. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Frank smiled, feeling perhaps he’d made up for killing Ned earlier. Although he did wonder, had he known it had been Ned, if he would’ve bothered to catch him at all.