In the Company of Ogres

Three

Copper Citadel didn’t have a proper graveyard. Its population consisted mostly of ogres, ores, and goblins, all of whom considered a corpse, at worst, something to trip over and, at best, ammunition for a stimulating game of Catapult the Cadaver, a popular orc drinking game. But a few humans were stationed at the citadel, and as it was official policy of Brute’s Legion to respect all cultures, even the absurdity of humans, there was a rudimentary cemetery set aside in a useless patch of dirt.

Two ogres, Ward and Ralph, were the official gravediggers. The position added a few coins to their wages. They could’ve done a poor job of it, and none but the dead would’ve cared. But Ward took some small pride in his work, and that rubbed off a little on Ralph. They were both typical ogre specimens: tall, wide, ruddy, hairy creatures with broad mouths and tiny, close-set eyes. Ralph was a little hairier than Ward, and Ward was a little taller. That was the biggest difference between them.

Ralph scooped out another shovel of dirt and glanced at the setting sun. “It’s getting dark. That’s deep enough.”

Ward shrugged. “I don’t know. Doesn’t look as deep as the last commander.”

“That’s because I liked that guy.”

“You might’ve liked this guy, Ralph.”

They studied Ned’s corpse with its bulging eye and purplish tongue hanging from blue lips.

Ralph frowned. “Looks like an asshole to me.”

“They all look like that when they’re dead.”

Ralph picked Ned up by one leg and dangled the corpse. “Yeah, but what kind of idiot calls himself Never Dead Ned, then goes and dies?”

“Asshole,” they said as one.

Ralph tossed the body in the hole. It didn’t take long for the heavyset gravediggers to finish the burial. Dark clouds spread overhead. A few heavy drops of rain fell. Ward jammed a simple tombstone into place.

“That’s nice,” complimented Ralph. “When did you make it?”

“Soon as I heard the new commander was coming. Didn’t think I’d have to use it so soon.”

In the unadorned cemetery, ten graves stretched beside Ned’s. Each stone bore the name of a dead human commander of Ogre Company. There’d been other casualties of the job, but only the humans needed to be buried. The ores had been used as roc chow. An elf had been burned on a pyre. There’d been a dwarf too, but he’d been torn to so many pieces that no one wanted to bother picking them all up. So Ralph and Ward had never learned how dwarves liked their corpses handled.

“Is it me, or are we going through these guys faster than we used to?” asked Ralph.

“It’s you. Although this one’s got to be the record. Hold on a second. I’ve got to fix something here.” Ward pulled a chisel and mallet from his belt and chipped an X through the “Never” in Never Dead Ned.

“Should we say some words?” asked Ward.

“Do we have to?” asked Ralph.

“Humans seem to like that kind of thing.”

The approaching storm thundered. “Fine. But let’s make it quick.” Ralph’s nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. “I smell rain. And magic. Dark magic.”

Rare ogres were born with a talent for smelling magic. The gift had never been proven to any of the other races, but ogres accepted it as fact.

“What’s dark magic smell like?” asked Ward.

Ralph drew in another snort. “Strawberries and cream.” He wiped the rain from his eyes. “Get on with it.”

Ward started to say something, then stopped. He started again and stopped.

“Well?” asked Ralph.

“I didn’t know the guy.”

“I’ll do it.” Ralph sighed. “Here lies another human. I didn’t know him, but he didn’t do anything to me so I guess he was all right. He was still a human though, and most of them are jerks. Except that one guy whose name I can’t remember now.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Ward, “the fat one.”

“Not that one. I’m talking about that short one.”

“They’re all short.”

“True, but this one was especially short.”

“Oh, yeah, the short one. He was a good guy,” agreed Ward. “Too bad about that guy.”

“Anyway,” continued Ralph, “I doubt this guy was as good as that guy, but maybe he was. Probably not. Probably was an asshole. But maybe not.”

A clap of thunder ended the ceremony.

“That was beautiful, Ralph.”

The two ogres loped their way toward the citadel to escape the threatening rain. The rumbling clouds swirled in the blackened sky. The wind howled, but the downpour never came, only a few drops.

The woman stood by Ned’s grave. She might’ve appeared there. Or just as possibly, she’d walked up unnoticed. She was a small, wiry figure with a bent back, dressed all in red.

Her cloak was crimson, her dress a sharp scarlet. Her long hair was sanguine, and her skin a pale cerise. A vermilion raven perched on her shoulder. She clutched a gnarled maroon staff in an equally gnarled hand. She raised it over her head and gathered the magic necessary to raise the dead.

Ned had been raised so many times that it was absurdly simple. One day, he might even rise without her help. For now, he still needed a nudge.

“Get up, lazybones.”

It wasn’t much of an incantation, but it was all that was required. The Red Woman stamped her staff on Ned’s grave. The clouds dissolved, and the air grew still. She waited.

An hour later, she still waited.

“He’s not coming up,” said the raven.

“He’s just being stubborn. He’ll get tired of sitting in the ground soon enough.”

Another hour later, he did. Ned had some experience digging himself out of graves, and it didn’t take long once he finally decided to claw his way to the surface. He wiped away the moist earth clinging to his clothes..

“Took you long enough,” remarked the raven.

Ned rubbed his sore neck. There was a crick in it now. That’d probably never go away. He always ended up with some such reminder after dying. There were so many now, one more didn’t make much difference.

The Red Woman smiled and walked away.

He called after her. “Why don’t you just let me die?” She turned her wrinkled face in his direction. Her red cheeks glowed in the faded twilight. “Because, Ned, I’ve had a vision. One day, some far-off tomorrow, the fate of this world and every creature that walks its lands, swims its waters, and soars through its skies will depend upon you and the decision you will make.”

He hadn’t expected the answer. She’d never given him one before. He felt a little better hearing it, to know there was a reason for his suffering. He puffed out his chest with a proud smile.

“I’m just screwing with you, Ned.”

Ned’s chest and ego deflated, and he slumped.

“Some people knit. Others play cards. I raise the dead,” she replied. “A girl’s got to have a hobby. Otherwise I’d sit around my cave all day talking to zombies. Have you ever tried having a conversation with a zombie? They’re very dull. And it doesn’t matter how many times you tell them you don’t mind the smell, they just keep apologizing. Over and over again. They’re so bloody self-conscious.”

“Sorry.” He wasn’t sure why he apologized. “But I was hoping you could just stop.”

“Give them the silent treatment, you mean?” She scratched her nose with a long fuchsia fingernail. “Hardly seems fair to discriminate against them just because they’re dead.”

“No. I meant I was hoping you could stop bringing me back to life.”

“That’s a fine thank-you,” she said to her raven. “Most men would consider themselves fortunate to have cheated death as many times as this one.”

“It’s just…” He struggled to find the right words. “Look. It’s not natural for a man to keep dying.”

She leaned on her staff. “What are you saying? You’d rather be dead? Is the grave so appealing?”

“It’s not that. But a man shouldn’t have to die more than once.”

She shook her head very slowly. “That’s your problem, Ned. You keep mentioning the dying. As if that’s the most important part. Has it occurred to you that perhaps you’d do better to think more upon the time you spend among the living and less upon those brief moments in the company of the dead?”

“Certainly not,” taunted the raven. “Ned isn’t a very bright boy.”

Ned reached for the dagger on his belt. It was gone. Over the years, he’d stabbed the woman with a variety of blades in a variety of points, but so far, she’d never seemed to care. He hadn’t tried the raven yet. He didn’t imagine it would work.

Even if he killed the damned bird, she’d probably just resurrect it.

“All things die, Ned,” said the Red Woman. “Everything must molder in the ground sooner or later. You are no exception… probably. But while we live, whether by nature or magic, we’d do well to appreciate the experience.”

“I don’t know why you bother,” squawked the raven. “Clearly he’s an idiot.”

“Perhaps.” She stepped into the night. Despite her bright rubecundity, the blackness absorbed her. “See you around, Ned.”

She was gone. He couldn’t say whether she walked away or vanished into nothing. For a moment, he considered her advice, but before he could give it much thought, a faint odor of strawberries and cream reminded him how hungry he was. Returning from the dead always gave him an appetite.

Copper Citadel was a dim beacon in the gray night, and he headed for it. It was an irksome journey. He couldn’t see well and kept tripping over the uneven, rocky ground. He’d had a lightstone in his pouch when he died, but it was gone along with his knife and money. He’d been robbed. Dead men had no use for gold. But now he wasn’t dead, and he was broke and blind, stumbling through the dark. He half expected to fumble his way into a booby trap and perish again. He was even more annoyed by the time he reached the citadel, and his teeth were positively grinding.

The front gates were open, and the ogre sentries were asleep at their post. The light wasn’t much better inside the citadel walls. The only illumination at all came from a few sizable lightstones that had yet to be stolen from their fixtures. Soldiers slept on the ground. Others milled about in drunken gangs. None noticed or cared about one stranger walking through their fort. Ned had heard Ogre Company was undisciplined, but this was an absurdity of a fortress. He was glad he didn’t have to worry about dealing with security.

He found the pub without any trouble. He just followed the sounds of carousing. The harsh blare of the bonehorn, a vile orcish instrument capable of producing only three notes, assaulted his ears. The player kept tooting those notes in the same sequence. Ned recognized the tune: “Skullcrusher Boogie.” Not his favorite orcish composition, but it beckoned him.

The pub was dark, musty, and crowded. Mostly ogres, as Ned expected. He kept his eye to himself and strode purposefully to the bar.

He caught the barkeep’s attention. “Doom stout.”

The barkeep, a short ogre easily a head taller than Ned, pursed his lips. “You sure you want that?”

Ned nodded, and the barkeep went to fetch a mug.

“Excuse me, but are you Never Dead Ned?” asked a goblin on the next stool.

“No.”

Ace leaned forward. “Are you sure? You look like him.”

“All humans look alike.”

Ace frowned. “Yeah, but this guy was distinctive, even for a human. He was full of scars. Like you. And he had only one eye. Like you. And his left arm, it looked a little gangrenous. Like yours.” He squinted. “Yeah, you’re him a’right.”

Ned admitted defeat. “Yeah. I’m him.”

“Thought so. I flew you in. Remember that?”

“How could I forget?”

The barkeep set a mug of thick, black liquid before Ned. “I’d advise you not to drink this, little guy. Likely to put you right in your grave.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Ned.

He gulped some of the doom stout. He had to chew to get it down, and swallowing was a feat of will. His gut burned. His tongue sizzled. His throat constricted so tightly that it cut off his oxygen for about a minute. His eye watered. After all that, a cool pleasantness filled his head. In an hour it’d be replaced by a crushing headache and a bloody nose, but an hour was a long way away.

“Never knew a human that could stomach doom stout.” The barkeep smiled. “That one is on the house.”

It was a good thing, because Ned didn’t have any money. But he was commander here, and he’d just risen from the dead. That should’ve been worth a free drink at the very least.

Ace lit his pipe. A fly caught in the toxic yellow cloud retched audibly and fell to the floor dead. “Guess they call you Never Dead Ned for a reason, eh, sir?”

“Guess so.” Ned bit off another gulp of ale.

“Hey, Ward, Ralph!” shouted Ace. “Look who’s back! Guess you didn’t bury him deep enough!”

Ned swiveled and scanned the pub. His gaze fell across the only two ogres who couldn’t look him in the eye. Both held a mug in one hand, a shovel in the other. Ned rose and stomped across the room on wobbly legs. Ace, grinning, followed. The pub fell quiet.

“Did you bury me?”

Ward nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re not supposed to bury me.” The muscles of Ned’s bad arm tightened. His hand balled into a fist.

The gravediggers gulped. Even sitting, they were taller than Ned, and there wasn’t a human alive who could take an ogre in a bare-knuckle brawl. But any man who could return from the grave and drink doom stout was worthy of some respect. Since ogres weren’t used to either respecting or fearing humans, they weren’t sure precisely how to feel. They ultimately decided on awkward unease.

The doom stout bolstered Ned’s courage, lessened his reason. He had no fear of death, merely a general dislike for it. He was capable of anything right then, and even he wasn’t sure what he might do.

“My money.”

Ralph dropped Ned’s pouch on the table. “We didn’t think you’d be needing it anymore, sir.”

Ned belched loudly enough to nearly knock himself off his rubbery legs. “My knife. My sword.”

The knife was given over.

“Someone got to the sword before us,” said Ward.

Ned hunched over the table to keep his balance.

“We were just following orders,” said Ralph. “Sir.” He grunted that last word with obvious disgust.

Ned’s bad arm swung out hard and fast and collided with Ralph’s thick jaw. A terrible crack filled the air. Whether it was Ned’s hand breaking or the ogre’s teeth slamming together, Ned couldn’t tell. But he knocked Ralph out of his chair and onto the floor. Ned spun around on the follow-through and, if not for a steadying arm from Ace, would’ve ended up beside the ogre.

The pub cheered. Every one of these soldiers appreciated a good, solid punch as an art form. Ned would regret it in the morning. His knuckles were swollen and red, but he didn’t feel the pain. The stout kept him nice and warm.

Ralph stood. He rubbed his jaw. A trickle of blood showed on his lip. Not much, but more damage than any human had ever done. Actually he’d never been punched by a human. The peculiarity of the situation took away his anger, leaving him with only profound confusion.

“Here’s a new order.” Ned jammed his finger into Ward’s chest. “Don’t ever bury me again.”

He turned and tripped his way back to the bar. When he’d settled back into place, the pub filled with noise again. The bonehorn player launched into a rousing rendition of “Broken Bone Blues,” a tune consisting of the same notes in the same order as “Skullcrusher Boogie,” but a little slower.

“You’ve got guts, sir.” Ace slapped Ned across the back.

Ned’s bad arm seized the goblin by his ear and tossed him into the bonehorn player. He hadn’t meant to do it, but his arm always got extra nasty when he drank. The patrons chuckled with much amusement. Ace dusted himself off and found a seat at the gravediggers’ table.

Ned swallowed another drink and wiped the sweat from his brow. The higher the fever, the better the stout. He ordered a steak, bloody rare. Nothing else agreed with a tall mug of doom stout.

A woman slid beside Ned. “So you’re our new commander.”

He glanced at her. She was pretty, not beautiful, with short, simple blond hair. She was vaguely familiar. Something about her stirred his animal lusts, and it was unusual for anything to stir his lusts so soon after rising from the dead. And a hearty stout never helped.

“Have we met before?” he asked.

“No, sir.” She smiled. A dimple appeared on her left cheek. He knew her. He just couldn’t place where.

“Name’s Miriam, sir.” She ran her fingers up and down his bad arm. The limb warmed at her touch. “Can a lady buy you a drink?”

Across the room, Ralph dabbed at the blood on his chin. “Told’ja he was an asshole.”

“Yeah.” Ace puffed on his pipe with a grin. “I like him.”