In the Company of Ogres (4 page)
“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.”
Four
THE RED WOMAN HAD amassed a great many responsibilities over her years. Whereas men existed six or seven paltry decades, she just kept on living, gathering tasks like a shambling sludgebeast gathered flies until the poor creature must eventually smother under the weight of a billion insects. But the Red Woman didn’t smother easily, and when Never Dead Ned spoke of the peace of the grave, she understood more than she ever let on.
One of her tasks was the tending of a godling. This particular godling manifested as a phantom mountain. It wasn’t much of a mountain, nor much of a god. But it was young, and gods aged at their own pace, some coming into being and passing away within an hour, others taking millennia to find form. The mountain was little more than a faithful puppy. It followed her everywhere, existing in some shadowy realm between the heavens and earth. Few could sense it. Even fewer could find it. But to the Red Woman, it was as real as anything else and never far away in the metaphysical illusion of distance. So she’d made it her home.
She stopped to catch her breath. She was very, very old and felt every bit her age on days like this.
Her raven flew ahead and called to her. “Come on now. Just a little farther.”
She nodded as if she needed the encouragement, as if she hadn’t taken this climb countless times before.
“I don’t know why you don’t just move to one of the lower caves,” said the bird.
“I’m comfortable in my cave.”
“Maybe so, but one of these days you aren’t going to make the climb.”
She silently agreed. Though nearly ageless, she was still flesh and blood. And flesh, even enchanted flesh, withered beside the antiquity of stone. She hoped with a decade or two the mountain might understand enough to provide her with stairs. It’d already given her something of a path to work with. Not much of a path, and there were portions she had to scramble over stubbornly. But it was a sign that this burgeoning godling understood something of her comfort.
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