In the Company of Ogres

by Martinez A. Lee

  “How much longer do you think it’ll rain?” he’d asked it on the third day.

  “How should I know? I’m a speaking staff, you idiot, not a weather vane.”

  After that Ned stopped talking to it. He stuck the staff in the corner where he was positive it was glaring at him, though it claimed not to be truly aware. Nor did it possess any eyes. He’d turn it a few degrees every hour in hopes of getting rid of the feeling. It didn’t work.

  By the evening of the third day, Ned’s boredom drove him to desperate ends to amuse himself: poetry. He’d never been artistic, not even to the slightest degree. He couldn’t draw or paint or play an instrument. And he couldn’t write very well either, but that was the great thing about poetry. It didn’t really have to be good. It just had to express something. Heck, it didn’t need to rhyme anymore, which meant just about anyone could do it. After an hour and a half of exhaustive inspiration, he set down his pen and read his defining masterpiece.

  A heap of cushions,

  The speaking staff mocks me still,

  This poem is not good.

  Ned cast aside his one and only work of literature. He whiled away the rest of the evening literally twiddling his thumbs and discovered, with mild interest, that one’s thumbs could actually cramp after too much twiddling.

  By the fourth day, he was so bored that he considered sending for someone to talk to. But he didn’t really know anyone at Copper Citadel. Not well.

  He thought of Frank. He seemed a pleasant, likable fellow. But he’d also killed Ned once already. Ned was pretty sure it’d been an accident. There’d been no reason for Frank to do it on purpose, but inviting a large ogre who had already proven how easily Ned could be crushed seemed a poor idea. He might just as well bash in his own head and get it over with.

  Gabel occurred next to Ned, but was quickly dismissed. Gabel was a stand-up officer, but not the most interesting conversationalist. Plus it unnerved Ned that Gabel pretended to be an orc when he was obviously a goblin.

  Regina and Miriam were natural choices. They were two engaging, attractive women. And they liked him, if the speaking staff could be trusted. That was the problem. He’d never been good with women. His strongest asset with the opposite sex was an assumption of complete and utter disinterest in him, which could be misinterpreted as a sort of relaxed confidence. He’d lost that now. Now he knew they liked him. Now he’d start trying. He’d say stupid things. Stupider things than normal. And he’d worry about those stupid things, which would lead to even stupider things. In the end he couldn’t have a normal conversation with a woman if he thought she was interested in him. There was just too much pressure.

  He glared back at the speaking staff. It hadn’t a single piece of good advice to offer him, and the trivial observations it’d shared had only complicated his life. Too bad he didn’t know anyone capable of dispensing sound advice.

  Someone knocked on his door. He considered not answering, but he was too bored not to. He opened the door a crack, not even wide enough to stick out his head.

  Owens saluted. “You sent for me, sir?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You will, sir.” The oracle held his salute. “Shall I wait here in the meantime?”

  Ned contemplated the odd nature of fate. He hadn’t planned on sending for Owens, but now that the soldier had arrived, Ned supposed it would be convenient to invite Owens in. Ned had found some guidance in their last conversation. True, his attempts to follow the advice had ended with him being crushed by an ogre, but that was as much Ned’s fault as anyone’s. If he wasn’t going to blame Frank, Ned certainly couldn’t blame Owens. The oracle was sure to be more polite than the speaking staff at the very least.

  Ned invited Owens in, and Owens was polite enough to wait for the spoken invitation before stepping inside.

  “How can I be of service, sir?” he asked.

  “Don’t you know?” Ned asked back.

  He walked over to the corner and took up the staff. He still felt safer holding it, though he had no proof it had any magical powers besides the ability to point out how dumb he was.

  “I’m an oracle, sir,” replied Owens, “not a mind reader.”

  Owens had read Ned’s mind on occasion, although that wasn’t really what he’d done. Technically he’d heard words that were going to be spoken while they were still merely thoughts, thus transforming them into words that were never spoken except in some theoretical future that never came to pass. It was a paradox. The same sort of paradox that summoned an oracle to Ned’s door before he’d thought of the idea himself, but giving him the idea to summon Owens, which Ned didn’t need to do since Owens was already here. In other words, the past was a product of the future, and the future was rendered obsolete before it ever happened. Just thinking about it gave Ned a bit of a headache.

  He stopped thinking about it. He didn’t need to understand Owens’s powers. He suspected Owens himself didn’t understand them. Causality was far too fragile a thing to undergo deep inspection in certain circumstances.

  Ned didn’t care about whatever Owens might hear either. Owens’s ability to hear the future was little more than a parlor trick in the end. Its only reliable use was in speeding up conversations. But Owens still had a level head and a good attitude, what little Ned knew of the soldier, and Ned needed the judgment of someone he could trust. Someone other than himself, whom he trusted least of all.

  He composed his thoughts, deciding what to tell and what to keep to himself. He waited for Owens to reply, but the oracle just stood there smiling.

  Ned cleared his throat and thought very deliberately about speaking the words this time. Owens still didn’t respond.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Ned.

  “No, sir. Why do you ask?”

  Ned plopped down in his pillows. Funny how irritating life could be. Owens, who usually answered questions before they were asked and interrupted constantly, was now oblivious. Which meant nothing other than slight frustration for Ned, who apparently had to actually say things to have the oracle hear them.

  “Do you feel okay?” asked Ned.

  “Very well, sir.” Owens’s smile widened. “Better than usual.”

  “You just seem off your game.”

  “Well, sir, I don’t hear all the future. Just little bits here and there, and sometimes the reception is better than others, depending on probability matrixes and spatial juxtaposition and personal relevance. Basic oracle theory, sir. I’m sure you’re not interested.”

  “And you’d be right,” replied Ned. “I called you here”—although I didn’t actually call you, he added mentally—“to ask for some advice.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, sir.”

  “Terrific. You’ve probably been wondering why I’ve locked myself away in this room for the past few days.”

  “Not really.”

  “But it’s been four days. Four days all by myself with the barest physical contact. That hasn’t made you curious?”

  “No, sir. It did seem a bit odd, but I assumed you had your reasons. Or perhaps you just went mad. It’s happened before. With other commanders here, I mean. One took to calling himself Lord Dragonstrike and convinced himself he could summon thunderbolts. Pure nonsense.” Owens stroked his long beard. “But then again, he was killed by a bolt of lightning, so maybe he was onto something.”

  Ned tried to lean forward on his perch of pillows but couldn’t get the leverage. “Some of the other soldiers must be wondering.”

  “A few, sir, but for the most part it’s not a topic of conversation that comes up often.”

  Ned felt vaguely insulted. And unimportant. It was one thing to hide away from the world. It was quite another to discover the world didn’t miss you when you were gone.

  “But I fought a dragon.” He held up the staff, although the gesture was lost on Owens. “I defeated it with this stick.”

  “Yes, the staff.” Owens nodded slowly. “There’s been some disc
ussion of that.”

  “But it’s just a piece of wood.”

  “It slew a dragon, didn’t it, sir?”

  “I slew the dragon.”

  “Yes, sir. With the magic staff.”

  Ned scowled at the speaking staff. He could envision it smiling smugly. He didn’t like thinking himself an accessory to the staff in the dragon incident, though that wasn’t far from the truth. He propped it against his shoulder with a sigh of resignation.

  “Here’s the situation, Owens. I don’t want to die again, but I’m tired of being in here. So I was wondering if you had any suggestions.”

  “Go outside.”

  “Is it safe out there?”

  “Is it safe in here?” replied the speaking staff.

  Owens cocked his ear in the direction of the new voice. “Is that the staff?”

  “Yes, it is,” said the staff.

  Ned asked, “How did you know it could speak?”

  “I didn’t, but there’s been some debate over whether it might. I guess Lewis owes Martin two silver coins.”

  Ned slouched. There’d probably been more discussion about this piece of enchanted wood than about him, and he was not only resentful, but a little jealous.

  “The staff has a point, sir,” said Owens. “The dangers of the world are many and varied. Just because you’re hiding in here doesn’t mean they still won’t find you.”

  Ned rolled off the pillows and went to the window. It was a warm, sunny day. Soldiers engaged in various training exercises throughout the citadel. Regina was busy showing a class how to properly use a battle-ax, while Frank taught another group the finer points of wrestling. Everyone seemed busy, and it was probably safe to go out. For a few minutes at least.

  “Do you really think it’ll be okay?” asked Ned of either Owens or the staff. He didn’t care which.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, sir,” said Owens. “Life’s too short not to enjoy it while you can.”

  The observation didn’t fully apply to Ned, an immortal. But he couldn’t make himself hide in this office any longer. If he was really, really careful and retreated back to this sanctuary at the first sign of trouble, then how dangerous could things be? He thanked Owens for his advice and gingerly, with great care, stepped out the door.

  The oracle felt along the floor until finding the pile of pillows and took a seat. He briefly wondered why Never Dead Ned cared if he died again. It was probably terribly inconvenient, he guessed. But Ned didn’t need worry much longer. No one did.

  Owens heard the future, and now he heard very little. The future was deathly quiet. As quiet and still as the grave. That silence, so loud in its inevitability, overwhelmed the whispers of possibility that he normally had to filter. It was why he was so happy. It’d been a long time since Owens had enjoyed a moment of true peace. It was only a shame that the world had to end for him to have it.

  Twenty-five

  A GRIM FOREBODING told Ned he’d made a mistake stepping out of his office. He expected the entire building to collapse on his head. He expected the floor to open wide and swallow him whole. He expected Death herself to be standing there, cradling his tombstone in her pointed, red fingers. But there were only the two posted guards.

  One of the guards asked, “Is everything all right, sir?”

  The foreboding left Ned. He had no reason to be nervous. The universe wasn’t out to get him, and why should it be? His death was its death. If anything, the forces of fate must certainly have been doing their best to keep him alive. Ned didn’t place much faith in higher powers. Gods were unreliable. Destiny was a hope found in the hearts of desperate men. But sometimes, if they believed strongly enough, desperate men could do great things. Ned was desperate. Desperate enough to believe someone somewhere was watching over him. He had no other hope to cling to.

  “I’ll be taking a brief constitutional,” said Ned.

  “Should we accompany you, sir?” asked the guard.

  He dismissed it as unnecessary. All his deaths at Copper Citadel had been accidents, all preventable with some caution and a bit of common sense. He didn’t see the need for a personal guard.

  “No, stay here. I should be back soon.”

  Ned ambled carefully down the hall. Along the way he tapped the floor ahead of him with his staff, like a blind man feeling his way. By the time he reached the door leading outside he was more confident. Each step felt like a success; each second he lived was now nothing short of a miracle. He reached for the handle but paused. Maybe it would be better to call it a day. He could always try going outside tomorrow.

  He glanced back at the guards. Both averted their eyes to look elsewhere, but they’d been watching him. He couldn’t just turn around now without looking like some kind of idiot.

  “Just a couple of minutes couldn’t hurt,” he mumbled as he turned the doorknob and stepped outside. His gaze met the cruel, black eyes of Nibbly Ned perched on Ward’s shoulder. The vulture emitted a scratchy, rasping screech and spread his wings. Ned’s sense of dread returned.

  Ward saluted but Ned hardly noticed, so intent was his stare locked on Nibbly’s. “Hello, sir. Good to see you about.”

  Ned swallowed his fear and mumbled something even he didn’t understand.

  “Are you feeling well, sir?” inquired Ward. “You’re looking a little pale.”

  “Fine. I’m fine.”

  Ned broke his stare, and Nibbly folded his wings, snapped his beak, and shifted on Ward’s shoulder. Judging from its fresh red scars, the bird had trouble finding a spot it enjoyed for long.

  “Glad to hear it, sir. Frankly I was getting a bit worried. And Nibbly here has been as well. Hardly eaten a thing the last few days. Isn’t that right, Nibbly?” He reached up to pet the vulture, only to have Nibbly’s sharp beak clamp onto his fingers. The ogre chuckled amicably as he wrestled to free the digits. “See there? He’s already back to his old playful self.”

  As Nibbly tugged, the vulture’s eyes never strayed from Ned’s. Ward’s fingers were not the buzzard’s meal of choice, Ned realized.

  Ward saluted again. “If you’ll excuse me, sir...”

  “You’re excused,” said Ned. Just as long as the ogre took that damn buzzard with him. But as Ward walked away, Nibbly jumped from Ward’s shoulders and flew to a perch atop a high rooftop. He glared down with unblinking focus on Ned.

  “Not to worry, sir,” said Ward. “He likes to be where he can see everything. It’s funny though. He usually perches on the northwest comer.”

  The perfect spot, mused Ned, to stare into his office. Several times in his sanctuary he’d sensed the cold shiver of death stalking him. Now he saw it in this bird, this ugly caricature of a harbinger so obvious, so unimaginative, that he refused to take it seriously. But if Nibbly ever got close enough, Ned decided he’d brain the gods-damned bird with his speaking staff, if for no other reason than to get some use out of the worthless stick.

  Ned toured Copper Citadel quickly. All about, soldiers were engaged in various training exercises. The main courtyard was divided into smaller classes. Surprisingly, Ogre Company seemed to be enjoying themselves. Not everyone of course. Ned caught a fair number of irritated glances, but the majority seemed not to mind the work, and a noteworthy percentage were going about their training with zeal. He guessed that once they’d accepted the idea, the soldiers were glad to have something to do other than sit around all day and drink.

  Now they had games to play while they drank.

  The soldiers had applied their creativity to combine the imbibing of drink and the art of war. In wrestling class, pinning your opponent won you a drink. Apparently so did getting pinned—though it earned you a smaller mug. A table was set to one side with six hearty mugs of ale, and whoever finished a lap around the citadel fastest got first choice. Any soldier finishing seventh or later had to go dry until his faster comrades, dulled by drink, slowed down a bit. Climb a rope while someone poured out a drink, and you could have whatever was lef
t when you reached the top. Smack someone with a training club; have a drink of various stouts and ales in various servings depending on just where you hit your opponent. Pitch a spear into a straw dummy; have a drink. Shoot an arrow into a target; have a drink. One hundred push-ups; have a drink. The unorthodox approach appeared to be working, and while many soldiers were a bit unsteady on their feet, particularly the humans and elves by nature of size and delicate livers, Ned guessed an army that could fight drunk just might be a force to be reckoned with.

  A large hand fell upon Ned’s shoulder. “There you are, sir. Finally out of your office, I see.”

  Ned managed to wrench himself free of Ralph’s tight grip. “Yes, private.”

  The ogre squinted and wobbled in place. He must have been training a little too enthusiastically this morning. His breath reeked of dozens of different alcohols, mixing into an unholy stench that nearly melted Ned’s speaking staff.

  “I’ve been looking for you, sir.” Grinning, nostrils flaring, Ralph poked Ned in the chest with a finger. Ned nearly toppled over save for a quick brace from his staff. “I’ve wanted to speak with you.”

  Regina, walking by with an armload of javelins, stopped suddenly. “Ned, you’re outside.”

  People had noticed his absence. He felt validated in some manner. And maybe the speaking staff had been right. Regina did seem pleased to see him, but that only made him nervous. He couldn’t imagine what she might see in him, but he wasn’t in a position to pursue romantic complications. He had enough trouble understanding normal women. An Amazon could only be more vexing, particularly since she could easily kick his ass if the mood struck her. He fumbled for a reason to leave her presence.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Archmajor, but Private Ralph here wanted a word with me.”

  Ralph belched. “That’s all right, sir. It’ll keep.” He stumbled away, swaying slightly.