In the Company of Ogres

Twenty-one

Copper Citadel had always been rundown, a victim of negligence. Hence the terrible mess left behind by a couple of powerful wizards wasn’t especially noticeable. There was generally more rubble lying about, and that rubble was more charred and blackened than usual. The garden was now a crater, and a crumbling tower that had leaned dangerously close to falling over was now fifteen degrees closer to collapse. The improvised wooden braces creaked and groaned under the pressure, but they held. A dozen ogres had been assigned to lean against the tower until maintenance could get around to shoving a couple more braces in place. Or the tower collapsed. Either way the problem would eventually solve itself.

There were only a handful of facilities in Copper Citadel that held any concern in the average soldier’s mind: the pub, the mess hall, and the barracks, in that order of importance, with the last two a far distance from the first. The dragons had knocked a hole in the mess-hall roof and smashed open one wall of the barracks. Both of which seemed improvements, adding ambient moonlight and sunlight to one’s dining experience. The barracks doors had always been a tad narrow for broad-shouldered ogres, who could now enter three abreast without difficulty. The pub was untouched, and it was still the focal point of activity within the citadel. This came as no surprise to Frank. He remembered vividly the time, not many months previous, when he’d seen the pub ablaze yet still bustling with thirsty soldiers.

He stopped off for a drink himself, seeing no rush in his platypus-disposing orders. Ned hadn’t seemed worried about the ex-dragon, and as a secret wizard Ned should know. Frank laid the sack on the table and ordered an ale to slake his thirst. He considered how to execute his orders.

There were many ways to kill a wizard, each and every one with its own disadvantages. Frank collected such lore as a hobby, and while he didn’t entirely believe them, he couldn’t safely dismiss them regardless of how absurd. Magic made all things possible. Especially the absurd.

He could burn the platypus, but inhaling wizard ashes cursed one with eternal hay fever. Hanging a wizard would afflict the tree used with evil that might crawl down into the earth through the roots and infect the very soil unless the tree was immediately chopped down. Too much fuss and toil in Frank’s opinion. Clubbing wizards led to thirteen years bad luck for every broken bone, and it was impossible to brain a thing without crushing the skull at the very least. Skewering spilled blood, and wizard blood had a tendency to behave oddly, springing into giant scorpions or angry skeletons or noisy harpies. At the very least, it tended to leave a stain behind that never, ever disappeared.

There was only one safe way to dispose of wizards. They needed to be drowned. Everyone knew wizard spirits couldn’t swim. They might fly right through the air and pass through the earth, but they sank like stones in the water. The spirit and all its evil magic remained forever trapped at the bottom of a pool. It was even better if a river was used so that the spirit was carried away to the ocean where all that salt water dissolved it.

A river ran near the citadel, but it was a little over four miles away, a longer walk than Frank cared for now that he’d gotten comfortable. But he was under orders, so he did the only thing an officer in his position could do. He delegated.

Ralph and Ward were sitting at the nearest table, thus targets of opportunity. He tossed the sack to them. “Throw this in the river.” He added, “Commander Ned’s orders,” then turned his back.

Ralph sneered. He was in no mood to walk either, but he was in even less of a mood to get into an argument with an ogre of Frank’s size.

Sighing, he threw the sack over his shoulder and started toward the river. Ward accompanied him. Nibbly Ned perched on Ward’s shoulder. The vulture tended to stick with Ward since he was the only ogre in the citadel who didn’t lick his lips at the sight of the bird. Nibbly had been well fed over the last two days but was still scrawny enough not to be worth fighting Ward over. But it was only a matter of time.

“This place isn’t the same since Ned got here,” remarked Ralph as they passed through the gates. “There didn’t used to be so many orders.”

Ward shrugged. Nibbly teetered, digging his talons deeper into the ogre’s flesh to avoid falling. “I don’t know. I think I like it. Used to be rather boring around here. Now we’ve had demons and brawls and dueling wizards. I can hardly wait for tomorrow.”

Ralph grumbled. “I didn’t join the Legion to be ordered about all the time. I joined to crush things.”

“Yes, crushing things is fun,” agreed Ward, “although I prefer smashing myself.”

“Smashing? How could anyone enjoy smashing once they’ve discovered the joy of crushing?”

“Oh, I’ll grant you,” said Ward, “that crushing is great fun. Particularly elves, what with that popping sound they make. Or humans in armor. A good club gets a great ping. But smashing is a lost art, if you ask me. Orcs were just made for smashing. And trolls, they’re terrific fun to smash. Isn’t that right, Nibbly?”

The vulture shrieked.

“Regardless.” said Ralph, “I didn’t join up to dig graves and throw sacks in rivers.”

“It’s a decent wage.”

It was Ralph’s turn to shrug, although he elected not to and continued to sneer. He was particularly ill-tempered, as only an hour ago he’d finished up a four-hour shift of tower holding-up. His shoulders and legs ached. The river seemed very far away.

He stopped suddenly. “I’ve got an idea. Come on.”

The ogres veered off to the roc pens just beside the citadel. It was near dusk, a time of day when the giant birds displayed some semblance of calm. They paced about their cages, uttering low growls and snapping at each other. The biggest beast cocked its head to one side and studied Ralph and Ward as they approached. It licked its beak and pressed its eyes against the heavy chain mesh of its cage, which already had several holes and was in need of repairs. The mesh wasn’t strong enough to contain a full-grown roc, but they were conditioned from hatchlings to respect it. Goblins were always on duty, with long spears to poke the monsters with should the rocs try to test the mesh. Escapes still happened, but only because a clumsy beast might trip and accidentally topple into the chains, tearing them down. The rocs would dash about like colossal, shrieking chickens until the goblins managed through sheer persistence to get them contained. This usually happened after the monsters had devoured enough goblins to fill their bellies, and they’d wander back to their pens.

Neither Ward nor Ralph nor many of the company’s ogres enjoyed being near the roc pens. As ogres, they were used to being the biggest, most dangerous creatures around, and the green roc that eyed them, in his own separate pen due to his size and disagreeable nature, clearly surpassed them in these qualities. A sign hung on his pen named him Kevin. Beneath that, another sign warned:

Always Hungry.

Do Not Look Directly in the Eye or Make Any Sudden Moves.

No Sneezing or Loud Breathing.

Below, another sign read:

Eats Anything. This Means You.

And below that, in bold red letters:

Please Refrain from Stepping in Maw. Thank You.

There was one last warning posted, no doubt for those who couldn’t read. It was a series of pictographs showing a careless goblin’s journey through Kevin’s digestive tract from beak to rectum. The artist had done a thorough job of showing the unpleasantness of the experience, even painting a frowny face on the pile of dung at the very end.

The warnings might’ve seemed excessive and unnecessary, but for goblins (who stubbornly ignored peril as a mark of general pride) it illustrated how dangerous this particular roc could be considered.

Eager to be on his way, Ralph prodded a trio of goblins snoozing nearby. They jumped to their feet with spears at the ready to jab into a roc’s eyes or groin or other sensitive area.

“Sir, yes, sir!” shouted the female at the front.

“At ease,” said Ralph.

The goblins, seeing nothing worth jamming their spears into, slouched. The female yawned. “Something I can do for you, sir?”

Ralph dropped the sack at her feet. “Commander Ned ordered this thrown into the river.”

“The river, sir?” said the second goblin, a tall male barely reaching an ogre’s knee. “But that’s a forty-minute walk. Don’t need a roc for that.”

“Are you questioning orders?” asked-Ralph.

“No, sir. But it’s just that it’s an awful lot of trouble to get a roc saddled up. They’re all put away for the night.”

“Just do what you’re told,” said Ralph.

The goblin female saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good, soldier.”

Ralph, Ward, and Nibbly walked away, leaving the sack with the trio. They studied it for some time.

“I’m not getting a roc out just for that,” said the third goblin, a fat little one.

The female nodded. “Agreed, but we have to do something with it.”

“We could always walk it to the river,” said the tall goblin.

This idea was quickly dismissed. The journey seemed even more arduous and unappealing than to the long-legged ogres.

Kevin shrieked. He clawed at the earth, raising a cloud of dust. The goblins exchanged sly grins, and the sack was tossed into Kevin’s pen. Instantly he gobbled it down. Then with a gruesome retch, he spun around and collapsed. His agape beak allowed a glimpse of the sack lodged in his throat. It wasn’t quite suffocating him, but it had cut off enough oxygen to reduce the great monster to a pitiful, wheezing heap.

“Oh, terrific,” moaned the fat goblin. “I’ve seen him devour four hogs in one swallow, but one sack kills him.”

“We should do something,” said the female.

Though not particularly dutiful, each had been working with rocs long enough to develop a certain affection for the beasts. And Kevin was the oldest roc and so possessed a great deal of sentimental value. He’d eaten so many goblins in his years that his normally golden red feathers had taken on the mottled green hue of their species. This inspired even more fondness since goblins were just happy for the existence of something that large and threatening that happened to share their coloring. Unofficially he was a goblin, if not by birth then by dietary concentration. The three agreed something must be done to preserve him.

The tall goblin entered the pen, and attempted to push the sack down Kevin’s throat with the blunted end of his long spear. It didn’t work. He laid down the spear and rolled up his sleeves. “Guess I’ll have to do it the hard way.”

“You’re not supposed to step into the maw,” observed the female, pointing to the sign.

“Do you have a better plan?” he asked.

The others shrugged.

The tall goblin entered Kevin’s jaws. He leaned his shoulders against the sack and found it slid in easily.

“This isn’t stuck,” he observed. “It’s not stuck at—”

Kevin slurped down the goblin and the sack with a satisfied squawk. He rose to his feet and paced hungrily in his cage.

“He was faking,” said the fat goblin.

“Imagine that,” said the female.

Both smiled, feeling some pride that Kevin was not only the world’s biggest goblin but very likely the cleverest as well.

The roc collapsed again, flapped his wings once, and wheezed.

“Nice try, Kevin,” said the fat goblin. They both returned to their posts, where they drifted off to sleep.

Ever ravenous, ever cranky, Kevin ambled around his cage as restlessly as ever. But there was something new in his pitiless eyes. As he absorbed the hue of his latest goblin snack, he absorbed something much more malign from the digested platypus: the beginnings of a gnawing hunger, fueled by hate and a last spark of dying magic. He turned his gaze on the citadel, past the leaning tower and toward the office where Never Dead Ned hid away.