In the Company of Ogres

Six

Ned hadn’t cared about bookkeeping, nor soldiering, nor anything he’d done before that. Nor did he care about his new command position. If there was passion to be found in life, Ned was still looking. He did what was expected of him and very little else. And inspections were expected. After he’d slept off his hangover, he’d realized that. He roused himself from his nice, cozy bed, got dressed, and set about on his duty.

Seeing Copper Citadel in the light of day for the first time, Ned decided his initial assessment of the fortress had been too kind. The whole place was in terrible shape. The walls were crumbling. The buildings were in the middle of slow-motion collapse. Nothing had been cleaned or polished in a very long time, and garbage had been heaped in out-of-the-way corners — and in not-so-out-of-the-way corners. The cobblestones were cracked and uneven. The walls were held up only by the braces of garbage piles. And the front gate was too rusted to even close.

The soldiers of Ogre Company assembled before their new commander. Ned scanned the rank and file. The sun was near setting, and details were hard to pick out. In addition, the soldiers milled about in disorderly fashion, more a disoriented throng than a disciplined military unit. He estimated about three hundred ogres, one hundred ores, seventy-five humans, a few elves and trolls here and there. There were goblins as well, but too many to bother counting.

Ned walked from one end of the courtyard and back again. He decided that was enough of a show.

“Dismissed,” he grunted.

“Back to your duties, you pathetic wastrels!” shouted Gabel. “Makes me sick to look at the lot of you, undisciplined scum!”

The courtyard began to clear out, although no one seemed to have any particular place to go. A handful of soldiers remained.

“Sir.” Gabel saluted. “I believe you’ll want to have a look at our more singular personnel.”

Ned wanted no such thing, but it seemed the kind of thing a commander was supposed to do. “All right.”

“The archmajor has the files for your convenience, sir,” said Gabel.

Regina stepped up, carrying an armload of scrolls.

Ned waved her away. “Just show me.”

Regina and Gabel exchanged shrugs.

“Very well, sir.” Gabel led Ned to the first in line.

The short, wiry soldier had a worn face, and a long red beard hanging to his belly. Even in the light of dusk, Ned could see the soldier’s eyes were white and glassy as pearls. Ned barely glimpsed the image of a setting sun tattooed on the soldier’s forehead.

“So you’re—” Ned began.

“Yes, sir, I am.” The soldier saluted. “Owens, oracle division.”

“I didn’t know the Legion still—”

“The program was discontinued, sir. Not cost effective.”

“Are you—”

“Completely blind, sir.”

“Do you have—”

“Yes, sir. Very annoying, I’m aware. But it’s a difficult habit to break.”

Ned rubbed his eye. “Are you—”

“I’m very good. Top of my class.”

“Well, that’s impress—”

“Thank you, but I feel I must acknowledge a limitation.”

Ned opened his mouth, but the impatient oracle answered the question before it was asked.

“Since losing use of my eyes, I can only hear the future.” The oracle flashed a proud grin. “But I hear it with an eighty-nine percent success rate.”

This information had barely reached Ned’s brain when the oracle spoke again.

“It still itches, sir, but a little ointment should take care of it. And thank you for your concern.”

“What?”

“My rash. That was what you were going to ask, wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“Are you sure about that? Often we think we’re going to say one thing when in fact we end up saying another.”

Ned replied, “I’m positive.”

“My mistake, sir. When you’re right eighty-nine percent of the time, you’re wrong the other eleven percent.” He pointed to his nose. “I do smell the future with ninety-eight percent accuracy.”

Owens answered before being asked. “No, so far it hasn’t proven very useful. Gods bless you, sir.”

“I didn’t sneeze.”

The oracle dug in his ear with his finger. “You will.”

Ned moved to the next in line, a towering two-headed ogre. Such twins were rarely born, and they even more rarely survived adolescence, the tender formative years when ogres inclined toward their most perilously obnoxious. Puberty for the ogre race was a terrible ordeal involving gushing boils, boundless carnivorous appetite, and dangerously psychotic mood swings. Ogre youths were given lots of space during this stage, but two-headed specimens had little choice but to remain side by side. It didn’t take long for one to kill the other — and himself — in the process.

The twins stood nine feet high if an inch and were nearly as wide. Their body was redder and hairier than those of single-headed ogres. The faces were similar but not identical. The one on the right had a fearsome overbite, and the one on the left had high-set, drooping ears. Still, it would’ve been obvious, even if they didn’t share one body, that the ogres were related.

“Private Lewis and Corporal Martin,” said Gabel.

They saluted with quick, military precision. They both began to speak, but stopped. Started again and stopped.

Lewis nodded to his brother. “After you.”

“Oh, no, after you,” replied Martin.

“Please, dear brother, I insist.”

“Not to be difficult, Lewis, but it is I who must insist.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Lewis bowed his head. “Clearly you were speaking first before I rudely interrupted. And it would be unseemly to speak before a ranking officer.”

“Oh, no no no.” Martin put his hand to his side of their chest. “It’s perfectly obvious to me that you were the one interrupted. To which, rank or no rank, I can offer no valid excuse. Mother taught me better than that.”

“Shut up,” commanded Ned. The words sounded odd attached to his voice. The curtness of it struck him strangely. But he was in charge here. He supposed it only appropriate that he started acting like it.

Neither Lewis nor Martin seemed offended. Ned guessed their mother had taught them better than to question their superiors as well. The twins both tried speaking once more, but neither dared talk before the other.

“You.” Ned pointed to Lewis. “What is it?”

Lewis saluted crisply again. “I just wanted to say, sir, that it is an honor to serve under the famous Never Dead Ned.”

Ned nodded to Martin. “Now you.”

“As you wish, sir, but I see no need to reiterate what my dear brother has declared with such eloquence. Though I myself would’ve preferred the word ‘privilege’ over ‘honor.’”

Lewis smacked his forehead. “Of course, how presumptuous of me. As always, dear brother, you have demonstrated your superior understanding of language.”

“Don’t belittle your own grasp,” replied Martin.

“You’re too kind, but it is obvious that I have overstepped myself with my poor word choice.”

“Now, now, I’ll hear none of that.”

Ned understood now why the twins had never gotten around to killing each other. They were too damn busy apologizing all the time. He left them to their atonements and moved to the next in line. The goblin was bright, leafy green, not the usual gray-green. And he had a shaggy red beard. Goblins didn’t grow hair normally.

“This is Seamus,” said Gabel. “Faerie blood in his family, isn’t that right, Seamus?”

“Yes, sir. My great-great-great-great-grandmother had a fling with a leprechaun. Quite scandalous. We don’t like talking about it.”

“Seamus is a shapeshifter,” said Gabel. “Give the commander a demonstration.”

The goblin disappeared into a blue cloud. When the cloud faded, a large, white cockatoo stood in his place. A green fog swallowed the bird, and Seamus became a fat, brown rat. A burst of yellow smoke later, he transformed into a boot. Then a skillet. Then a trumpet. Then an apple. And finally a bucket.

Ned stood before the bucket a few seconds, but Seamus didn’t change into anything else.

“I think he’s stuck, sir. Happens sometimes. Nothing to worry about.” Gabel nodded to the bucket. “Carry on, Seamus.”

Fourth in line stood a long, white reptile. She was serpentine in form, fifteen feet long stretched out, but her body was coiled to a more reasonable six-foot height. Her limbs were short, four pairs in all. She stood on two pairs while her other two were folded. She radiated warmth, and the air shimmered around her. Her face was more like a cat than a reptile, and her two blue eyes sparkled in the dusky light. Little puffs of fire rose from her nostrils with each breath.

Ned said, “I thought all the salamanders were destroyed after the Terrible Scorching.”

“No, sir.” Flames erupted from her mouth as she spoke. Ned stepped back to avoid having his eyebrows charred. “Not all.”

“What’s your name, private?” It wasn’t that he cared, but he was starting to feel like a commander, despite himself. And a commander should know his soldiers.

“You couldn’t pronounce it with your thick, lumpy tongue, sir. They just call me Sally.” Salamanders changed colors with their moods. Ned knew the basic color codes. Red for anger. Purple for vanity. Green for envy. She turned a golden orange, and he had no idea what that meant. He made a mental note to check her file later to see if it listed the more obscure shades.

“Good to have you on board, private,” said Ned with enthusiasm that surprised him. He nearly slapped her on the shoulder, but caught himself in time to avoid a nasty burn.

She glowed a light purple. “Thank you, sir.”

Next to last in line waited a short, treelike creature with a full head of yellowing leaves. The tree’s bark was scarred. Some of the carvings looked like old wounds, but most appeared intentional or decorative. Only one caught Ned’s eye. It read, “Don’t pick the apples.” A few arrow shafts were buried in the tree’s trunk. He was amusing himself by plucking the petals from a fresh, young rose. Most striking to Ned was the burning cigarette pursed between the tree’s lips.

“Private Elmer, sir,” said Gabel.

Ned glanced the private up and down. It took him a moment to spot the tree’s eyes, two dark spots that might be mistaken for knots.

“I didn’t know we had En—”

“Treefolk, sir,” interrupted Elmer.

“Treefolk. But I thought you called yourselves En—”

“No, sir. We aren’t allowed to say that anymore.”

“Why not?” asked Ned.

“We just aren’t. A wizard put a spell on the word, so we don’t say it anymore.”

“A spell?” said Ned. “But it’s just a word. Why would anyone want to put a spell on a word? What happens if you say it?”

Elmer drew a puff on his cigarette. “You don’t want to know. Nothing too troublesome, but it’s just easier to avoid it.”

“But treefolk?”

“Well, we’re trees and we’re folk. Isn’t too imaginative, but it gets the job done.”

Ned shrugged. “I’m surprised there’s any treefolk in the Legion. Didn’t think they’d take up the soldiering profession.”

“Why is that, sir? Because I look like a bush, I gotta be all lovey-dovey, kissy-wissy. Is that what you’re saying, sir?”

“No, it’s just. .”

“I was told the Legion didn’t believe in racial profiling, sir. I was told I would be judged by my ability to slaughter my enemies, not the texture of my bark.”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“Then what did you mean, sir?” Elmer plucked another petal from the rose. “What, pray tell, could you have possibly meant by that ill-informed, insulting remark?”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Ned.

“Oh, I suppose that makes it all right then. You didn’t intend to verbalize your ignorance. As long as the slur was unintentional, I guess we needn’t worry about it. I guess I won’t need to file a grievance with my union then.” Snarling, Elmer dropped the flower to the ground and stomped on it with his roots.

He turned to Sally. “Disgusting mammal stereotyping.” His leaves brushed the salamander’s scales, and he plucked the smoldering bits of foliage before the flames could spread.

Ned moved on before he could say anything else he might regret. “I didn’t know there was a treefolk union,” he whispered to Gabel.

“Yes, sir. Only four of them in the whole Legion, but they’ve strong connections to the Troglodyte Brotherhood and United Siege Engine Operators. Best not to offend them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Next was an elf. White stubble covered her shaved head. Her eyes were pink, her skin smooth and chalky. Although Ned had never found elves especially attractive, she might’ve been beautiful if she weren’t quite so chubby. It didn’t help that she was picking her nose.

“This is Supply Sergeant Ulga, sir,” said Gabel.

She wiped her finger on her sleeve and nodded to Ned. “How’s it going?”

“Could be better,” he answered honestly.

“Ulga is part of the conjurer division, sir,” said Gabel.

“Any good, sergeant?”

“I get by, sir. If I do say so myself.” She reached into the air with a flourish and produced a plate of biscuits, which she presented with a smile. “Help yourself, sir.”

Ned took a bite and instantly regretted it. It wasn’t that the biscuit tasted bad. It actually had no taste at all. But it was so dry that it sucked all the moisture from his mouth. He swallowed. The morsel scraped its way down his throat and landed hard in his stomach.

Ulga clasped her hands before her, slowly spreading them to reveal a tin cup. She pointed her finger, the one that’d been up her nostrils only moments ago. Wine dripped from her fingertip to fill the cup, which she then offered to Ned. “I call it Ulga’s Special Vintage. Have a taste, sir.”

He took a gulp and retched. The warm drink took away his dry mouth, only to replace it with a slimy dampness. It was less a beverage and more a parasite clinging to his tongue.

Ulga read the disgust on his face. “Begging your pardon, sir, but it ain’t all that easy to make the good stuff out of thin air. I ain’t heard a man complain yet when nothing else was available. And it might not taste so good, but it’ll get you drunk pretty fast.”

“It will?”

“Yes, sir. Pure magic in a cup. There ain’t nothing quite like it. Except maybe doom stout, but not many fools around who’ll drink that.”

Ned forced another swallow and emptied the cup. He did feel a little light-headed. “How much can you make?”

“About five pints a day, sir.”

“Make as much as you can, and have it sent to my quarters.”

“Yes, sir.” She grinned proudly. “I can see you’re a man of discriminating tastes.”

He ran his tongue across his teeth, trying to scrape away the aftertaste. But free booze was free booze.

“And, sergeant, wash your hands before you do it,” he added, moving down the line.

Miriam the siren waited next. Dusk was now upon the citadel, and the shadow of her body was very appealing. Although that was probably the enchanted wine at work.

“And, of course, you’ve already acquainted yourself with our morale officer,” said Gabel.

The rest of the line chuckled except for Seamus, who had worked his way from bucket to potted petunia. Sally the salamander turned a bright blue.

Ned couldn’t quite look Miriam in the eyes. But she didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable and winked at him with a slight smile. Maybe it was the wine, maybe her innate siren charm, maybe just ordinary indiscriminate animal lust, but he smiled back.

“Is that it, Number One?” he asked.

Gabel nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Ned looked the line up and down. Ogre Company was the last stop in a failing career in the Legion. Even ogres didn’t end up here unless they’d screwed up somewhere. But overall, they didn’t seem a bad bunch. He didn’t see why they couldn’t be made into something worthwhile.

Too bad he wasn’t the man for the job. He just wanted to put in his time and avoid getting killed again.

A huge, shrieking shadow soared over the courtyard. The soldiers ran for cover. Except for Seamus, who was now a battle-ax, and Ned, who, lacking the reflexes, didn’t realize what was happening until nearly being crushed beneath a roc’s talons. The great bird craned its long neck downward to within a few feet of Ned’s face. Sharp teeth lined its jagged beak, and its tongue was long and blue. Its breath was hot and sweet, like ripening honeydew. He’d never been close enough to the maw to notice before.

The roc snorted, and he thought for sure it would devour him. But Ace slid down its neck and kicked the bird on the back of its head. The creature barely noticed, but hissed and turned away.

“Sorry about that, sir. Long flight. Morena is a little hungry.” Ace hopped to the ground. In one hand, he held a small pouch. In the other, he clutched the roc’s reins, seemingly unaware that Morena could catapult him a good mile or two with a casual whip of her head.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Gabel. “You can’t land one of these things in the citadel proper.”

“Beg to differ, sir.” Ace puffed his pipe through grinning teeth. “I can land a roc pretty much anywhere. Mind you, getting them back in the air can be tricky. Especially Morena here. She likes a lot of room.”

The roc beat her wings, and Ned expected her to fly away with the goblin wrapped in her reins.

“Quiet down, girl.” Ace hopped in the air, yanking the tether with all his weight, which was about half as much as one of Morena’s feathers. “Got to keep a firm hand with them, sir. Can’t give them an inch.”

Morena’s serpentine tail thrashed wildly. Being crushed once was more than enough for Ned. He stepped back very slowly so as to not draw the roc’s attention. She shrieked in a warbling, ear-splitting cry.

“Oh, shut up, Morena.” Ace picked up a stone and hurled it at the monster. The rock bounced off her beak. She quieted, turning her hungry gaze upon the goblin. She licked her beak, splashing puddles of drool.

“Get that thing out of here,” commanded Gabel.

“In a second, sir. But I was told to give this to the commander without delay.”

Ace tossed Ned the pouch. The courtyard lightstones were burning now, and Ned glimpsed the wax seal with a symbol painted in blood: a scale encircled by a winged serpent atop a single, demonic eye. In all of Brute’s Legion, there was no more dreaded division, no section more coldly ruthless, no battalion as unforgiving or merciless.

Accounting.

Ned shivered.

The roc jerked its head, lifting Ace in the air. The bird snapped up the goblin in her beak. Ned, pouch in hand, almost envied Ace.

The roc ruffled her feathers and shuddered. She gagged and spat up her morsel. Ace landed beside Ned. The goblin rose, wiped the saliva from his goggles, wrung the moisture from his scarf.

“Where’s my pipe?”

Morena belched it up. Ace clamped it in his teeth and puffed, though the flame had been doused by the roc’s copious saliva. “Keep it up. Just keep it up, and maybe I’ll eat your damn dinner myself.”

Morena shook the ground with two thuds of her tail.

“A‘right already. A’right.” He tugged on the reins. Morena lowered her head, and he climbed aboard. He whipped the reins. The roc hopped five times, nearly falling over every time. Once she teetered close to falling on Ned, but he didn’t bother to move. Couldn’t really see the point. Finally, Morena managed to stay airborne.

“Can’t give ’em an inch,” muttered Ace.

Morena offered a throaty growl and flew away.

Ned stood there awhile not moving.

Regina, her arms still full of scrolls, strode up to him. “Sir? Are you well?”

He nodded. Then turned and walked away, swallowed by the shadows.

“You’d better return those scrolls to records.” Gabel held up a calico kitten. “And you’ll have to look after Seamus for a while.”

Seamus mewed apologetically. Ogres considered cats a delicacy, and his life was never in more danger than when he was stuck in kitten form. Shapeshifting was a complicated business, but Regina often wondered if this was an accident. She usually took care of him when it happened.

Gabel tossed the kitten onto the scrolls. Seamus curled up on the heap to rest his head between her breasts. By her code, she should’ve beaten him to a pulp. But he was so damn cute.

“If I ever find out you’re faking this…”

Purring, he swished his tail.

She kissed his head. “… I’ll grind you into furry mush.”

With a soft, feline smile, Seamus batted his big green eyes.