In the Company of Ogres

Five

Consciousness attacked Ned like a thundering beast. Given a choice, he’d have stayed asleep. Forever. It was the next best thing to being dead. But he didn’t have choices. He just had things he had to do, and waking up was one of those things.

His brain throbbed, pushing against the cage of his skull. He thought for sure it must’ve been oozing out of his empty socket. His left arm was stiff and unyielding. Any attempt to move it met only with a terrible ache, so he let it lie. Blood crusted under his nostrils. All these he expected, but there was something new: he tasted fish.

He hated fish. Even drunk on doom stout, he couldn’t imagine willingly putting it to his mouth. He ran his tongue across his lips. It was fish all right. Salty, not horribly fishy tasting, but indisputably fish.

He smacked audibly and moved the pillow from atop his head. Furious light flooded in, and he put the pillow back with a groan.

“Good morning, sir,” Miriam purred, “or should I say, good afternoon?” Her silken voice stirred those animal lusts, but his hangover and the peril of daylight kept him from responding.

He was too achy to smile, but he remembered now. A vague recollection of a night spent with her in his arms. It’d been magic. At least, he thought it’d been magic. The stout blurred the details. Still, he’d gotten laid. That counted for something. Maybe Ogre Company wouldn’t be so bad at all.

Something scaly slipped between the covers to touch his shoulder. He pulled away.

“I have to get going, sir,” said Miriam. “Kiss before I’m off?”

Eye closed, he lifted the pillow and puckered. Soft, cool lips met his. They tasted like fish. She tasted like fish. Reflexes kicked in, and he tumbled out of bed. For a minute, he struggled against the covers entangling him and the burning heat of daylight. When his vision cleared, he glimpsed a creature, a woman covered in golden scales, standing over him. She spoke with Miriam’s voice.

“I guess this means the honeymoon is over, sir.”

Ned covered his eye. “How drunk was I?”

“Very drunk, sir. But that really doesn’t have much to do with it. I tend to appear to all men as the woman of their innermost desire. Hazard of being a siren.”

He recalled how she’d looked last night. Pretty, yes, but nothing supernaturally appealing.

“Think about it,” she said. “Is there anyone you’ve ever desired who you couldn’t have?”

He didn’t feel like running through the list right now. It didn’t matter. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d left a tavern with a beautiful girl and woke up to a woman with webbed toes. He swore this time it’d be the last. Although he’d sworn that the last time, so he couldn’t pretend the promise counted for much.

Now that the shock had worn off, he noticed Miriam’s shape was distinctly feminine. More so than he’d seen last night. She had long, supple legs, a narrow waist, and noteworthy breasts. Her face, resting someplace between a cod and a woman, left a lot to be desired. But her scales glinted beautifully, and the fins atop her head were tall and regal.

“Why don’t you look like you did?” he asked.

“Like this?” She whistled a few pleasant notes. His vision blurred, and she transformed into a tall, dark-skinned woman. Not the same form as last night, but still very familiar. Yet another woman on his list that he couldn’t quite place.

She stopped whistling, and the illusion fell away. “Sharing a bed has given you some tolerance, sir. Now it only works when I sing. That’s why I seduced you. So we could get past it right away. Better for both of us.”

He winced and felt sick. It wasn’t Miriam. He was okay with that. Not happy about it, but okay. Remnants of doom stout congealed in his stomach, coated his throat. He felt like throwing up, but the stout wasn’t letting him off that easy.

She smiled. A nice smile, even framed by plump, purple lips. “Admit it. You had fun.”

He couldn’t really remember. A night with the woman of his dreams and all he could recall was the morning after.

“Permission to leave, sir? If I don’t take a dip, I’ll start flaking.”

He granted it. She slipped into her uniform, offered a casual salute, and left his quarters. He lay on his bed for a while, dredging up blackened bits of sludge from his throat. In a little over fifteen minutes, he’d half filled his chamber pot with a revolting brackish paste.

Someone knocked on his door. He grunted an approximation of “Come in.”

Gabel entered and saluted. “Sir, first officer reporting for duty.”

“Can I help you?” asked Ned, then remembered he was in charge here. “What is it?”

Gabel bowed. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering when you’d like to do your first inspection.”

“Never,” said Ned honestly.

Gabel’s brow furrowed curiously. “Sir?”

“Later. I’ll do them later.”

“And the address, sir?” asked Gabel.

“What?”

“The introductory address, sir? To introduce yourself to the troops.”

“Later.” Ned yawned. “Much later.”

“Yes, sir.” Gabel coughed softly to fill the silence while he organized his thoughts. “Might I ask you a question, sir?”

Ned groaned. “Yes, I was dead last night. And yes, I know they call me Never Dead Ned. But I guess that’s only because Occasionally Dead Ned isn’t nearly as catchy. Does that answer your question?”

“It’s true then. You can’t die.”

“Actually, I die very well. In fact, I dare say I’m the undisputed grand master of the art of perishing. It’s the staying-dead part that I’m not very good at.”

Gabel coughed again to cover an awkward silence.

“I’ve never met an immortal before, sir.”

“I’ve never met such a tall goblin.”

Gabel frowned. “I’m an orc, sir.”

Ned frowned. “Are you sure about that?”

An edge entered Gabel’s voice. “Quite certain, sir.”

Ned rubbed his face and studied Gabel for a few seconds before deciding he didn’t give a damn. “Permission to leave.”

Confused, Gabel looked around the room. “These are your quarters, sir.”

“I was giving you permission.”

The first officer saluted. “Thank you, sir. I’ll alert the men to expect your address later this evening.”

Ned mumbled something that was neither an affirmation nor a contradiction and rolled over in his bed. He disappeared under his blanket, but before Gabel could leave, Ned grumbled from under the covers.

“Do you know of anything that’s good for washing out fishy tastes?”

“I believe the general consensus is a tall glass of warm grog works best, sir.”

“General consensus?”

“Miriam has known most of the other men here, sir. In the most traditional sense of the word.” Gabel grinned wryly. “Shall I fetch that grog for you, sir?”

The blankets bounced up and down in what Gabel took as a nod. He left the room, slamming the door shut. Ned groaned loud enough to hear through the walls. Gabel’s grin vanished.

“Well?” asked Frank.

“Is it him?” asked Regina.

Gabel nodded.

“I thought you said he was dead,” said Frank.

“He was.”

“Are you certain it’s him and not just some other human?” asked Frank.

“I can tell one human from another, thank you very much.” Gabel’s long, goblinlike ears wilted. “And this one is very distinctive. No one would mistake him for anyone else.”

“But how is it possible?” asked Frank.

“Obviously it’s some sort of magic,” said Regina. “Is he a wizard?”

“He doesn’t look like a wizard,” said Gabel.

Frank leaned low, which still made him very tall, and whispered, “Maybe he’s a secret wizard.”

Gabel’s voice boomed in comparison. “A secret what?”

Frank picked up the orc with one massive hand and clamped the other over Gabel’s mouth. The ogre’s meaty palm covered all of Gabel’s face. He flopped around and resisted, but there wasn’t much he could do. Frank nodded toward the far end of the hall, and he and Regina tiptoed away from Ned’s door. Frank released Gabel.

“I could have you court-martialed for that,” said Gabel.

“I didn’t want him to hear you.” Frank tapped the patch on his shoulder. “Besides, I outrank you.”

“No, I outrank you.” Gabel tapped his own patch with a sneer.

“No, you’re first officer. I’m organizational lieutenant, first class. That puts me above you.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Will you two stop bickering?” Regina folded her arms across her chest and stood ramrod straight.

“You can’t tell us what to do,” said Frank.

“Yeah,” agreed Gabel, “we outrank you.”

“No, you don’t.” She pointed to the insignia stitched to her robe just above her left breast. Frank and Gabel took note of it, but were wise enough not to stare too long and risk receiving a brutal right hook. “As archmajor, second stratum, sixth class, I’m the highest-ranking officer here.” She tapped her temple with her finger. “At least, I’m pretty sure I am. I know I outrank at least one of you.”

“Damn, the Legion made this complicated.” Frank scratched the mane of thick red hair atop his pointed head. “Makes me wish I’d signed up with a smaller army sometimes.”

Gabel said, “We can go back to my office and check the flowchart: ’

“Ah, forget it. Doesn’t matter.” Frank leaned in once again and whispered, “What I was getting at was that maybe our new commander is actually a secret wizard.”

“What in the Grand Goddess’s name is a secret wizard?” asked Regina.

“It’s like a wizard. But secret.” Frank bent lower until his head was level with Gabel’s. “They’re very dangerous.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Though the Amazon and the ore kept their voices normal, Frank continued to whisper. “Very few have. That’s why they’re called secret wizards.”

“Well, what’s the point of being a wizard if you’re going to keep it secret?” asked Gabel.

“Exactly.”

Frank smiled wide and nodded very slowly, but he didn’t supply any further explanation. Gabel was content to let the subject drop, but Regina couldn’t help herself.

“What makes these secret wizards so dangerous?”

Frank leaned forward until his comrades were certain he’d fall on them. His voice was barely audible.

“Nobody knows.”

Gabel sighed, and Frank stood straight and frowned.

“Don’t you understand? They’re like wizards, but secret. They’re not like proper sorcerers living in floating castles and consorting with demons and mixing potions. Those kind are bothersome, but you know what to expect. There’s protocol. Some nasty bugger raises an army of the dead or decides to forge an accursed ring or some other such nonsense, you can always dig up a magic sword or find some prophesied hero or just assemble a huge army and take care of them.

“But secret wizards walk among us. Nobody knows how many there are. Nobody knows what they’re up to. And that’s what makes them so dangerous.”

“Fine. Let’s pretend there is such a thing.” Gabel grunted skeptically. “If Ned were a secret wizard, then returning from the dead would blow his secret.”

Frank nodded with that knowing grin of his. “It’s just the sort of thing a true secret wizard would never do. Which is precisely why it’s just the sort of thing a very clever secret wizard would do.”

“That does make a certain sense,” admitted Regina. “It’d certainly throw off suspicion.”

“Let me get this straight.” Gabel paced in a small circle. “Never Dead Ned may actually be a secret wizard because secret wizards don’t go around showing off their power in public, except to convince people that they aren’t really secret wizards, which very few people suspect even exist in the first place.”

“It’s a very clever ploy,” said Frank.

“Ingenious,” agreed Regina.

“It’s ludicrous.” Gabel’s voice rose, though he successfully resisted the sudden urge to shout. “It’s absolutely absurd. That has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He stared down the ogre. Frank picked something out of the hair on his thick forearm, sniffed, and ate it. When Gabel stopped panting with annoyance, Frank mumbled, “Or it might just be the cleverest thing you’ve ever heard of.”

Gabel ground his teeth. “Even if he were, which he isn’t, he wouldn’t be that clever.”

By now, the Amazon was entrenched in the subject. She began to whisper too. “Anyone could be a secret wizard. And the more unlikely the suspect, the more likely they could be. What could they want?”

“Nobody knows,” said Frank. “And few are willing to speculate.”

Gabel threw up his hands. “When you’re ready to talk about something more important than imaginary secret societies of hypothetical diabolical wizards, you can find me in my office. Oh, and Regina, the commander asked for some grog. You should get on that.”

“^Why me?”

Gabel struck on a plan that was very likely to put Ned back in his grave. Or at the very least, get Regina demoted. Since Gabel wasn’t truly certain he outranked her, he couldn’t lose either way. “The commander asked for a leggy redhead. I told him we didn’t have any redheads, but he said a blonde would do in a pinch.”

Regina scowled. “Swine.”

“And he said to hurry up your pretty little ass.”

With a guttural growl, she clutched the sword at her side.

Gabel, his back to her, chuckled before heading off to his office to consult the ranking flowchart.

Regina drew the weapon a few inches from its sheath and slammed it back into place several times. She glared at Frank. Her black eyes simmered with disgust for all males in general and one in particular. Even the very large ogre felt a trickle of fear down his back.

“I wouldn’t suggest killing him unless you can be sure he’ll remain dead. Even if it didn’t upset him, he’d probably have you written up.”

“Yes. You’re right, of course.” But her eyes didn’t soften, and her grip on her sword tightened. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve grog to fetch.”

Frank stepped aside, and she stalked her way across the citadel to the tavern. Every soldier knew well enough to stay out of her way by her burning gaze, clenched fists, and the hard kick of her step.

Regina’s temperament had gotten her transferred to Ogre Company. The logic was, as ogres were large and fearsome, she’d be less likely to pick fights with them. It’d worked so far, but this was mostly because no ogres had gotten on her bad side yet. “An angry wife is good for life,” went an old ogre adage, and had Regina been an ogress, she would’ve been very popular. But she was human, and ogres preferred human women to be delicate and cuddly, thinking of them more as pets one could fornicate with than as lifelong mates.

Regina did have frequent tussles with the humans and orcs stationed at Copper Citadel, but in Ogre Company, as long as no one lost a limb, such incidents rarely found their way into a soldier’s permanent record.

She brought the grog back to Ned’s quarters. Pausing outside the door, she drew her sword. Perhaps she couldn’t kill him with it, but she might be able to teach him a lesson in respect. Frank’s warning came back to her. He’d made a valid point. Ogre Company was the last place left her. If she blew this, she blew her career in the Legion. She didn’t want to start over in another army.

“He’s not worth it,” she told herself. “He’s just another worthless man.”

Wrapping herself in Amazonian superiority, she sheathed the blade and pushed open the door without knocking.

Ned, obscured beneath blankets, groaned.

“Your grog, sir.”

A scarred arm poked out from under the covers. It looked a little gangrenous. The fingers grabbed at the air until she put the mug in his hand. The limb retracted, and heavy gulps issued from beneath the cloth.

“Thanks. That is better.” He belched and tossed the empty mug to the floor.

“Anything else, sir?” she asked.

“What?”

She swallowed hard. Her hand toyed with the dagger on her belt. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

Ned lowered the blanket, exposing his face and shoulders, a lattice of ugly discolorations. She’d seen healthier corpses. She expected a leer, perhaps an open ogle of her womanly perfection, but Ned barely glanced at her before rolling over, allowing her a glimpse of the slashes and scabs along his back. She found herself mesmerized, staring at the history lacerated upon his skin.

He turned his head to look up at her with his one eye, and she smiled at him without realizing it.

“Are you still here?” he asked.

She frowned. “Sorry, sir.”

She saluted, turned, and left the room. In the hall, she stopped, feeling suddenly short of breath. She leaned against the wall as her legs were inexplicably shaky. She closed her eyes, and the slashes and scabs along his back flashed through her mind. There’d been a sword wound and, beneath that, a dagger’s mark. Beside that, a purple welt that had to have come from a crushing mace blow. Claws of some terrible beast raked across his shoulder blades. And there was more than this. So much more. It was beautiful.

He was beautiful.

Regina had never felt this way before, and she didn’t like it. She fingered her sword, contemplating removing the object causing her discomfort. But this was Never Dead Ned. She couldn’t kill him.

And maybe, she considered with a snarl, she didn’t want to.