In the Company of Ogres

Thirty

The Citadel came into view far too soon for Ned’s liking. He would’ve preferred more distance from the Iron Fortress. He couldn’t help but count every inch of every mile between him and an army of demons. It didn’t make much difference, but it would’ve made him feel better just the same. The bulk of rocs put down in the pens on the other side of the citadel, but Ace put Ned’s flight down in the courtyard. The courtyard was bustling, but Ace managed — impressively — to not squash anything in the landing.

The riders disembarked, and Ace spurred the roc back to the pen. Frank limped forward to greet Ned and company. The Ogre held a tree trunk across his shoulder. He saluted, the gesture without a trace of sarcasm.

“Any trouble, sir?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“Good to have you back, sir.”

“Good to be back, Lieutenant. And it’s Ned. Just Ned.”

Frank smiled. “If you insist, Ned.”

“I do. I think we both know I’m not the right man to be in charge.”

Regina cleared her throat behind Ned, who shrugged.

“Right person,” he hastily corrected.

“Can’t disagree with you there, Ned,” said Frank, “but you are in charge. To be honest, I’ve seen worse commanders.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Look at it this way, Ned. Most horrible commanders don’t know how horrible they are. You’ve got that on them.”

Frank put his hands on Ned’s shoulders. The gesture was meant to be comforting, but it reminded him how easily Frank could flatten the delicate human skull with a casual squeeze.

“This is all very nice,” said Regina, “but we can probably expect a demon horde any moment now.”

Frank waved his tree trunk at the soldiers running around. “We’re almost prepared. As much as we can be. The citadel isn’t designed to resist a full-scale assault. The gate’s good and strong, but it won’t amount to much defense with these crumbling outer walls. That one gap is large enough for a phalanx to march through.”

“Won’t really matter. Most, if not all, the demons can fly. A breach is to be expected.”

“Good.” Frank, like most ogres, preferred his warfare direct and to the point. A protracted siege would be far too dull.

“How are we doing for armaments?” asked Regina.

“Not nearly well enough,” replied Frank. “We don’t have a full complement. Just enough for training purposes.”

“We’ll make do,” said Regina, “but the darkness will put us at a disadvantage.”

“Ulga said she might be able to do something about that.”

While Regina and Frank shared strategies, Ned stood to one side. They had things well in hand, and he didn’t have anything constructive to offer, neither the experience nor the skills to be of great use on the battlefield. It was better, just plain smarter, to leave this war to others. If the mark of a good leader was the ability to delegate authority, then Ned wasn’t just good. He was great.

He didn’t feel great. He felt helpless. He might contain the most powerful force in the universe, but it didn’t change the fact that he himself was practically useless.

Miriam tapped Ned on the shoulder. “Everything all right, Ned?”

“I guess.”

She held out the speaking staff. “Some of the soldiers found this. Thought you might need it.”

He didn’t. The staff had no magic, and even if it did, he didn’t know how to use it. He took it just the same. It was comforting to have something solid to hold.

“It’ll be okay, Ned,” said Miriam.

“I know.”

He didn’t, but he was commander. He couldn’t afford to show fear or weakness or uncertainty. That was part of the job, damn it. He could fake it if he had to.

Miriam put her hand on his shoulder. Unlike Frank’s meaty mitt, hers seemed a small reassurance. “Don’t worry. We’re professionals. Fighting is what we get paid to do.”

Ned realized he wasn’t as good at faking confidence as he’d hoped. Yet another basic leadership skill he lacked.

“We should really get you under cover,” said Frank suddenly from beside Ned.

Ned sighed. The battle of the universe was about to commence, and he’d be stuck in some dank hole. It made perfect sense. His life was what this was all about. It’d be plain stupid to have him join in the melee. He was sure to be killed within minutes (if not seconds). He knew all this, but it didn’t change his distaste for it. If he was to die today, he wanted to meet oblivion face-to-face, not cowering in some basement waiting for death to come to him. Especially since it always found him in the end.

“Private Lewis and Corporal Martin have agreed to serve as your personal bodyguard,” said Frank.

The massive ogre twins saluted.

“It’s an honor, sir,” said Lewis.

“And a privilege, sir,” added Martin.

“Right.” Ned looked up at the towering brothers. They only made him feel all the more insignificant. Ironic, considering how the fate of the universe was so indivisible from his own.

An orc watchman in a balcony blew the alarm on his hom. It was blasted dark now, but ores had excellent night vision.

“They’re coming.” Frank wrapped his hands around the tree trunk and took a few practice swings. “Get him out of here.”

“Right this way, Commander,” said Lewis as he ushered Ned toward the pub basement.

“Good luck, Frank,” said Ned.

The ogre lieutenant didn’t hear him; he was too busy scanning the darkened sky for the first signs of the enemy. On the way to his hiding place, Ned passed Ulga as she began conjuring burning balls of light and launching them into the air in rapid succession. They bathed the citadel in a soft glow. They lit the night like small, very near stars. The light of an artificial dawn cast through the pub. Ned paused, staring out the window. He held tighter to the speaking staff.

Some unseen monster shrieked in the distance. Then another. And another. Ten million demon voices filled the air with their shrill, fearsome war cry.

“How many are there?” Ned wondered.

“Too many,” replied the staff.

Somewhere, someone in Ogre Company had found a bone horn and blew the battle ballad of Grother’s Death Brigade, a company of ores famous for killing a dragon tyrant by cramming themselves down the tyrant’s gullet until she choked to death. The soldiers raised their weapons and roared in one voice. The ogres, with their deep, bellowing voices, dominated the song. The demon’s war cry and the company’s song mixed together into an off-key miasma of glorious determination.

It hurt Ned’s ears. It also simmered his blood. For the first time ever, Ned grasped in some vague sense the strange nobility of charging down a dragon’s throat with a sword in your hand and a smile on your lips. For the first time ever, he wanted to step out onto the battlefield and do his part.

The twins opened a trapdoor behind the bar. “We should get you below, sir,” said Martin.

“Right this way,” said Lewis.

Ned sighed. Unfortunately, hiding was his part of this battle. He walked down the cellar stairway with some strange, foreign reluctance. The twins closed the door, dulling the horrible, enticing dirge of war.

Owens sat on a barrel. He turned his head as they entered. “Hello, sir.”

“What are you—”

“Blind, sir,” the oracle replied. “Hearing the future isn’t much good in a fight.”

Ned stood in the middle of a cellar surrounded by kegs of mead dimly lit by a single candle. Only it wasn’t a candle.

“Is your staff glowing, sir?” asked Martin.

The staff cast a soft light. It also felt slightly, almost imperceptibly warm.

“Why are you glowing?” asked Ned.

“I’m glowing?” replied the staff.

Before Ned could ask it another question, he noticed the howls of the demons and bellows of the company had faded away. In their place was a deathly, all-consuming silence, so complete that even the cellar was seized in its grasp.

Demons settled on the walls of Copper Citadel, yet none entered its grounds. They perched like leering vultures, whispering and chuckling among themselves. And Ogre Company waited for the signal to attack. Both sides remained still as if fate itself dared not play out this final battle.

The first to step into the citadel was a terrible beast of slime and fangs, with the body of a cat, the wings of a buzzard, and the head of a cyclopean gnome. Its rider was a muscular warrior of a demon in black, spiky armor with a long blood-red cloak. The rider carried a wicked barbed lash. The demon spread iron wings and cackled. She pulled back her hood to reveal a face that, while not soft or delicate, was vaguely feminine.

“Who’s in command here?” she asked with a delicate, gossamer voice.

Frank stepped forward. He adopted a proper smashing stance. “I guess that would be me.”

Spear in hand, Regina stood beside him. “That would be us.”

The demoness narrowed her glittering silver eyes. “My master, the Glorious and Dreaded Rucka, First Emperor of the Ten Thousand Hells, has sent me to negotiate. Listen well. Surrender Ned to us, or perish horribly beneath our unforgiving wrath.”

Frank tightened his grip on his tree trunk. “And if we do?”

The demoness snarled and smiled at the same time. “Then perish slightly less horribly beneath our reasonably more forgiving wrath.”

The demons cackled until the demoness quieted them with a thunderous crack of her whip.

“Tonight you will die, and I’ll not insult your intelligence by lying. But to gain even the slightest degree of mercy from Rucka’s minions is a charity anyone should be grateful for.”

The demons cackled again.

Frank chuckled. Regina joined him. Then Miriam. Soon every soldier in Ogre Company was shaking with laughter. The stymied demons fell silent and glared. They were unaccustomed to such behavior from their victims.

“What foolishness is this?” shouted the demoness.

Frank wiped his watering eyes. “Sorry, but I thought this was supposed to be a battle, not a debate.”

“You dare mock the legions of Rucka?”

“Oh, no. You’re a very fine legion,” explained Regina. “It’s just that ogres don’t really go in for that prefight posturing.”

“It’s true,” said Frank. “We’re less talky, more smashy.” He thudded the earth with his club. “And we haven’t had a decent fight in a very long time. So you’ll have to excuse us if we’re a bit impatient.”

The demoness nodded. “Very well. If that’s your wish, then let your blood soak my lash!”

Her weapon shot out toward Frank’s throat. He blocked it with his arm, and the whip wrapped around the limb. They stood there a moment locked in a brief tug-of-war. The spikes pierced his thick flesh, and blood dripped from the wounds. The lash drank the blood, turning darker as the demoness laughed.

Frank shifted his weight and yanked her off the beast. Her mount roared and charged. Its jaws weren’t quite large enough to swallow Frank in one bite, but it was willing to give it a try. Frank smashed it across the face with his club. The monster staggered. He struck again. Blood and slime spewed through the air. Frank wrapped his arms around the stunned beast’s neck. He called on every ounce of his ogre muscle, and the monster’s spine cracked loudly. It collapsed, wheezing, still alive, but limp and broken.

The demoness drew an ax and rushed at Regina. Regina sidestepped a swing meant to split her in half, and struck with her spear. The demoness made no attempt to evade, having absolute faith in her dark armor. But there was a small hole just below her armpit that none had ever noticed before, much less been skilled enough to strike. But Regina’s spear found it. The demoness howled as blood gushed from the fatal wound. She turned and took three defiant steps before falling to the ground dead beside her beast.

The citadel was deathly quiet once more.

“That wasn’t so hard,” said Frank.

“Two down.” Regina took in the hundreds of unholy eyes perched on the walls. “How’s your arm?”

The wounds pierced deep into the muscle, and even a thick-skinned ogre had to feel that pain. “It’s nothing.”

“Just be careful, Frank.”

He smiled down at her. “I was wondering, Archmajor. I don’t know if you’d be interested or not, but do you want to maybe get a drink after all this is over?”

The charge of the swarm drowned out her reply. In one instant the air was thick with demons, an unholy fog of screams and claws and blades. The horde came in many forms. Small imps more annoying than dangerous. Great warriors astride monstrous mounts. Some were armed with swords or whips or spears. Others were armed only with their gnashing teeth and slashing talons. But every demon, in all their infinite variety, shared one thing in common with Ogre Company.

They were spoiling for this fight.

Frank and Regina fought side by side. The ogre swung his club in wide, sweeping arcs that swatted demons from the air. Regina’s spear slashed with brutal efficiency, slicing down scores of opponents. Within moments, the formidable pair stood on a small hill of dead demons. A fat underworld warrior jumped on Frank’s shoulder and bit into his flesh. The jagged fangs drew blood, and Frank couldn’t reach up to dislodge the beast. Regina speared it. The demon fell away, taking her spear with it.

It was far too loud to hear anything except the roar of battle. Frank nodded appreciatively to Regina. She drew her sword, nodded back. And before turning to face a new wave of attackers, she did something he’d never seen her do: she smiled.

He’d seen her smile before. But not like that. Not at him. Like maybe it meant something.

Regina neatly beheaded three demons with one stroke. She continued the motion effortlessly to stab a fourth stealing up behind her. Screaming, she hurled herself fearlessly into another cluster. They could’ve torn her to bits, except it was the last thing they were expecting. Before they could gather their wits, she’d already killed them. The blood of demons, a vibrant paint of deep reds, thick yellows, chunky greens, and shiny purples, stained her beautiful armor and even more beautiful face.

It was then that Frank knew he loved her.

A pair of demons, foolishly thinking the smitten ogre had dropped his guard, found themselves crushed beneath his club. A winged enemy swooped in to strike Regina from behind. Frank seized its wings, plucked it from the air, and squeezed its skull until three of its four eyes burst. Regina nodded to him. And it was his turn to smile.

A giant beast, like an ape made of equal parts mud and discarded fish guts, lumbered forward as its rider prodded it with a trident. Regina and Frank raised their weapons and, screaming as one, charged.

The skirmish raged throughout Copper Citadel. Elmer battled with suicidal abandon against a gang of flaming gremlins. He would’ve been scorched to ash save for Ulga’s quick thinking. She conjured a personal stormcloud over his head. It poured torrential rains, but even a wet treefolk wasn’t completely fireproof. Most of his leaves smoldered, and bits of him smoked.

Ulga threw bolt after bolt of conjured lightning, blasting demons into blackened corpses. One or two bolts went astray and killed a few of her fellows. But friendly fire was to be expected in a battle of this chaotic nature, and most of the soldiers were either elves or goblins, generally considered expendable.

Sally’s fiery nature was ineffective against most of the enemy host, and she relied instead on claws, teeth, and sword. But whenever an ice demon presented itself, she’d melt it with a fireball. Steaming puddles covered the ground around her before the frosty creatures learned to steer clear of her.

A half dozen of the company’s strongest ogres encircled Miriam, compelled to protect her. She couldn’t control the effect, couldn’t switch off her innate siren’s aura. She wanted to soak her sword in demon blood, but few demons were able to get within her reach. She had to settle for unleashing her enchanted song in tightly knotted notes that disintegrated enemies in small bunches.

Seamus had strained his shapeshifting abilities to their maximum. He’d become a huge lumbering minotaur, three times the size of an ogre. He swept his fists from side to side, batting aside his foes. He crushed others beneath his hooves and gored them with his horns. Swords and spears pierced his flesh, and green goblin blood dripped from the wounds. But he kept charging.

Ace and his squad of rocs soared through the darkened skies. The birds’ talons shredded demons while they slurped down others. Soon, their appetites sated, the groggy rocs ground their opponents in their beaks before spitting them out. Hundreds of clinging goblins formed a crawling, living armor on the rocs, and the demons had a hell of a time getting to the vulnerable, reptilian flesh beneath. And when they tried, three or four goblins would leap from the roc. The boarders gleefully cheered as they and their unwilling ride plunged fatally to the earth. Several of the rocs lost their pilots, yet they carried on slaughtering whatever annoyed them, mostly demons. But two rocs did start tearing into each other amid the confusion. Great winged stags soared forth, spitting fire and roaring like lions. Ace, grinning, whipped the reins and led the squad forward.

Soldier for soldier, the army of the damned was little match for Ogre Company. There were few demons large enough to tackle an ogre, and fewer still who could take the physical punishment that an ogre could withstand. Ogres battled with broken bones and shattered jaws and half their blood pouring from vicious gashes. Some would die soon. Many were mortally wounded, but simply too stubborn to die until the battle was over.

The other species held up almost as well. As a matter of pride, the orcs were determined not to fall before the last ogre, and the humans were a tenaciously difficult breed to exterminate despite their lack of any particular strength or talent. The trolls weren’t very dangerous, but anything short of beheading just slowed them down. More than one demon dashed about the battlefield with a limbless troll clamped to its throat, butt, or some other conveniently dangly bit. The goblins perished in droves, but at a rate of twenty goblins to one demon, that was a losing proposition for the underworld minions. Even the elves made a decent show of themselves. They died quickly, but demons loved the taste of elven flesh. Few demons possessed the will to keep their full attention on the fight while a flavorsome corpse lay nearby, and many a demon died with a mouthful of elf after turning its back on an opponent.

But the horde kept coming, pouring from every window and gate of the Iron Fortress. An unlimited supply of soldiers was at Rucka’s command. The fortress itself was a portal to the underworld, and whenever a demon died, its body soon dissolved as it returned there fresh and renewed and ready to rise from the bowels of the Iron Fortress to continue the relentless assault on Copper Citadel.

Rucka’s victory was inevitable. The Emperor of the Ten Thousand Hells stood in his throne room, gazing down at the endless stream of demons washing over the besieged citadel in the distance.

And he waited.

Ned hated waiting. While the battle raged noisily above, he sat there in the cellar with Martin and Lewis, Owens, and the faintly glowing speaking staff.

It seemed like he’d been waiting his whole life. Waiting to die. Waiting to not die. Waiting for his time in Brute’s Legion to end. Waiting for his fate to be decided by everyone but him. But worse than the waiting was the knowing.

He knew it was all pointless. Ogre Company was formidable. Even without proper discipline and adequate armaments, these were dangerous soldiers. It was why the Legion had been reluctant to dismiss them. And Ned could imagine them to be one of the greatest arms of the Legion. With the right leader. Too bad he wasn’t that leader. Too bad they were all about to be senselessly slaughtered. Too bad Rucka was going to wake the Mad Void. Too bad everything was going to end.

Just too bad.

Ned glanced to the trapdoor, expecting it to fly open and a tide of demons to come sweeping down and fill the cellar. They didn’t, but they would. In ten minutes. Or twenty. Or half an hour. Maybe longer. But sooner or later.

He wished he could do something.

His bad left arm tightened its grip on the speaking staff. The staff glowed brighter. Martin and Lewis said nothing, but they did take a step back. Even Owens seemed to sense something and stood a little farther away than before.

“Why are you glowing?” Ned asked.

“I’m not glowing,” replied the staff.

“Yes, you are.” Ned shook it. “Don’t you know why?”

“I’m not glowing. If there is light coming from me, then I’m not the origin of it.”

“But you’re still glowing,” said Ned. “What does that mean?”

“Must mean there’s magic running through me.”

“The Red Woman,” Ned hoped aloud. She wasn’t dead. She’d just gone off to gather her power. She was coming back with an army of gods or angels or something like that to wipe out the underworld horde.

Ned slouched. He had to stop hoping for miracles. They weren’t coming.

All that power inside him, and he was helpless.

The veins on Ned’s bad arm throbbed. The flesh reddened and cracked. The staff itself changed to match the shade and texture so that it was indistinguishable from his hand. It glowed brighter still. And somewhere inside him, the Mad Void rumbled. The sound filled the cellar.

“Sir, are you okay?” asked Lewis.

Ned nodded, but he felt it coming. Rucka’s magic must’ve awoken the Void after all. It was just slow to rise. He swallowed it down, even as an inner voice told him to let it out. It was the only way to stop the demons, the only way to save himself and the company. If he just let it out a little, if he just opened that inner cage the smallest crack. It wouldn’t take much. The Mad Void could obliterate Rucka and his minions without a second thought.

Ned would never get it back in. It would destroy the universe.

And if he didn’t, Rucka would let it out, and the universe would be destroyed anyway.

Something pounded on the trapdoor. The ogre twins positioned themselves at the bottom of the stairs.

“You’d better hide yourselves, gentlemen,” said Martin.

“We’ll handle this,” said Lewis.

Owens drew his sword and used it to feel along the floor to stand beside the twins. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather die not hiding.”

“Glad to have you by our side, sir,” said Martin.

The trapdoor splintered inward, and shining eyes gazed inside.

Either way, Ned was going to die. Either way, the universe was dying with him. Ned was tired of waiting. He was tired of hiding. He was tired of being Ned.

The door shattered. Demons rushed in. Martin, Lewis, and Owens raised their weapons to make their final stand. The twins clubbed two demons, and the blind man managed through sheer luck to stab a third in its throat. But the rest overwhelmed them and were an instant from tearing them to pieces.

Ned held out his staff. Red bolts blasted from its tip to strike every demon in the cellar. They disintegrated in a flash, not just slain but obliterated. Wiped from reality into utter, irreversible nothingness, denied the endless return from the underworld.

“What happened?” asked Owens. “What’s going on?”

The twins didn’t answer. They saw in Never Dead Ned something they had never seen before. Something no creature in a thousand other devastated universes had ever seen and lived to tell. It wasn’t an obvious transformation. Other than his bad arm going from gangrenous to blood red and the shining staff in its hand, he still looked like Ned.

But he wasn’t Ned.

Silently, the thing that had been Never Dead Ned passed Owens and the twins without acknowledging their presence. It ascended the stairs. Demons started screaming.