In the Company of Ogres

Seventeen

Ned had hoped to get training under way immediately, but his better judgment said it would be wiser to wait one more day. The company needed time to adjust to their new schedule. But by morning they’d be up and ready to forge themselves into a dedicated, organized fighting unit as battle-worthy as any in the Legion. That was what Ned told himself anyway, and he chose to believe it despite his cynical nature.

He wasted the rest of the morning in the pub, sharing drinks with Miriam. He didn’t drink much. Not much for him. He’d set aside the joy of warm inebriation for the time being, but he hadn’t given up the pleasures of a nice mug of watered-down mead.

Miriam had a nice smile and an easygoing appeal, and once he’d gotten used to her more aquatic features, he had to admit she was surprisingly lovely. It was probably her natural siren powers on his groggy perceptions on this early morn, but she was quite charming. And while he preferred redheads and didn’t like the taste of fish, once or twice he recalled what she’d looked like naked, and he wasn’t repulsed by the idea of seeing her that way again. It didn’t hurt that the crowded pub kept forcing her to press her breasts and hips against him. The clumsiness of ogres in tight quarters surprised Ned. It didn’t seem like three minutes could pass without some oaf brushing against her, sending her squeezing against him.

She’d apologize each time with a playful smile on her lips. Lips that were full and moist and probably not nearly as fishy-tasting as he dimly recalled, and even if they were, was that such a bad thing? He definitely would’ve considered bedding her again under different circumstances, but he was commander. He’d made a mental list of things he couldn’t do anymore. Though he hadn’t bothered to prioritize that list, fraternization had to be somewhere near the top.

He’d never been good at self-discipline, which was just one of the reasons he’d been a poor soldier. But it wasn’t hard to abstain when female personnel were sparse and most of his command consisted of hairy ogres, brutish ores, malodorous trolls, and reckless goblins. Ogresses were even hairier than the males of the species, and even if he’d found that appealing, any carnal attempts would assuredly lead to a crushed pelvis. Orc females in the throes of passion were notorious biters, and he liked having all his fingers. He’d heard troll women got all drippy when aroused. He hadn’t asked what that meant, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want to hear the specifics. And while he liked petite women, goblins were just too short.

There were only a handful of women in the company that might tempt him. Although Ulga was nice, she was both chubby and an elf, neither of which he found endearing. Regina was beautiful, but she was an Amazon, so there was no point in considering that. Miriam was the only temptation. She had the sweetest smile and a lovely laugh and an enchanting figure and splendid grace, but she was also a fish. That was a lot to get around.

It wasn’t a tremendous obstacle. He’d hated the taste of broccoli once, and he’d gotten over that. And Miriam was infinitely more tempting. But he was commander. He kept reminding himself, and for now, it was enough. It wasn’t a dilemma anyway. He couldn’t imagine that Miriam was actually interested in him. She was just being friendly. It was her job as morale officer. The rest was merely siren charm and wishful thinking. Still, every time she touched his arm or laughed at one of his weak jokes or batted those big, black eyes at him, he couldn’t help but wonder. He might’ve even pursued it, despite his determination not to, except he had other things he needed to do.

He finished his mead and excused himself. “Company business,” he explained vaguely, and Miriam seemed satisfied to leave it at that. He walked across the pub, stopping before Frank and Gabel.

“Can I speak to you a minute, Lieutenant?” asked Ned of the ogre.

“What about, sir?” said Frank, crunching some silverware between his teeth. The pub staff had stopped bringing over mugs after he’d devoured his fifth.

“It’s a private matter.” Ned walked away, and Frank, casting a suspicious backward glance at Gabel, followed. Ned led Frank out of the pub to a quieter section of the courtyard where no one else was listening.

“I need your help,” said Ned.

“Yes, sir?”

Ned leaned forward. “I can’t fight.”

“Sir?” Frank squinted skeptically. Maybe Gabel had been right. Maybe Ned was playing some sort of mind game.

“I can fight,” Ned continued. “But not very well.” He grimaced. No point in denying it. “Not well at all.” He shrugged. It wasn’t so hard to say after all. It felt almost freeing to admit aloud.

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Frank.

“I need a tutor. A war tutor.”

Frank’s skepticism waned but lingered. “You’re commander, sir. You don’t need to know how to fight.”

“But I should be able to,” said Ned. “At least a little bit. I want to set a good example for the staff.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Shouldn’t I?”

Certainly, you should, agreed Frank silently. But he’d never met a commander yet who followed this philosophy.

“I thought I might train with the rest of the soldiers,” said Ned. “But I was hoping to get some pointers first. I don’t mind looking like an idiot, but I’d like not to look like a complete incompetent.”

“Why me, sir?” asked Frank.

“It was you, Regina, or Gabel. I was going to ask Regina first, but she’s gone off somewhere. And Gabel isn’t in the best of shape right now. I trust I can count on your discretion.”

If this was some sort of trick, Frank couldn’t think what it might accomplish. And Frank, despite himself, found himself liking Ned. It took a strong character to admit one’s faults and an even stronger character to try and improve them when one didn’t have to. Thinking on it, Frank had never seen any of the previous commanders demonstrate the slightest degree of martial prowess. They’d all been too busy barking orders and strutting around.

“Will you help me?” asked Ned.

Frank saluted. “When do you want to get started, sir?”

Ned decided there was no time like the present, but his embarrassment kept him from wanting to train in the open. Copper Citadel had a private garden set aside for its commander’s use. No one had tended it in some time, and it was a sorry sight. Half the plants were overgrown, the other half dead or dying. Ned hadn’t chosen it for aesthetics, but for its high walls and enough open space for sparring.

“How should we start?” he asked.

“Always start with the basics,” said Frank. “Come at me. Let’s see what you’ve got, sir.”

Ned already knew what he had. Or didn’t have. And he knew that he didn’t stand a chance against a small ogre, much less one Frank’s size.

“Should I use my sword?” asked Ned.

“If you want.”

“I don’t know if I should. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Smiling, Frank shook his head. “You won’t, sir.”

“I might.”

“Then come at me without the sword if you think that’s safer,” said Frank.

Ned hesitated. On the one hand, he wasn’t much of a threat to ogres without some sort of weapon. On the other, he’d hate to wound Frank. He didn’t expect to. Not on purpose. But accidents happened.

“Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

Ned drew his sword, but the sharpened edges put him off. He wasn’t a good fighter, but he considered himself unlucky, almost supernaturally so. The one time he wouldn’t want to kill someone would very likely be the one time he did. He put the sword away and instead picked up a heavy limb fallen from a half-dead tree. It was thick enough to inspire confidence without posing much danger to Frank. Ogres were notoriously thick-skinned. Pointed things might kill them, but most maces and warhammers just bounced off.

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.”