In the Company of Ogres (8 page)
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
?”
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.
Seven
NED FOUND HIS OFFICE with some effort. He didn’t bother asking directions. He just wandered through the citadel until he discovered a door marked Commander’s Office. It was right next to his quarters, which made a lot of sense after the fact.
He sat in the room behind a small desk and stared at the pouch. Stared as if it might explode or dance around or some such thing. The contents of the pouch by themselves were harmless. Yet he knew their meaning too well.
He’d been a bookkeeper in the Legion’s accounting division. Balancing ledgers. Checking expense reports. Filing and alphabetizing. An audit every so often. Grunt work. But the true terror of the accounting office rested in that small pouch.
He found a half-full bottle of liquor and took a long swig to discover that it contained either very good whiskey or very bad whiskey. He broke the seal on the pouch. Inside he found a lump of green and black coal with a slot in it, and a small coin wrapped in cloth. The coin was half gold, half platinum. On the gold side, a grinning, devilish visage was imprinted. On the platinum, a fat demon balanced the world on a scale against a pile of coins. Around the edges, the simple motto of the dreaded ninth circle of Hell was inscribed: “Better Evil Through Profit.”
The ninth circle was where Hell did its accountancy. The demons within were ruthlessly efficient. All they cared about were profit and cost-effectiveness. Everything was a debit or credit, a gain or a loss. Their ultimate goal was to reduce the universe to a calculation, a final heartless equation in which every soul, living and dead, divine and damned, would serve in the Glorious Ultimate Dividend. They were evil incarnate, but they were the best at what they did, which was why the Legion subcontracted much of its troubleshooting work their way.
Ned drank the rest of the bottle before getting on with it.
He ran the sharp edge of the coin across his thumb, drawing blood. The coin absorbed the offering, gaining a crimson glint. Then he dropped it in the slot. The air sizzled. The unholy lump broke apart, hatching a devilish little creature, eight inches of stringy, red demon. The homunculus looked very much like a man, save the scales, wings, tiny horns, hooves, and long pointed tail. The creature was balding, though he had tried, with no success, to disguise this by brushing his thin hair across his shiny scalp. He wore a tunic stitched together from the cursed flesh of the damned, and he stank of moldy ledgers and burning dung.
The homunculus adjusted his thick spectacles and twitched his crooked nose. “Never Dead Ned, I presume.”
Ned nodded.
“Excellent. Shall we get down to it?” The homunculus glanced around. “Where are your ledgers?”
“I don’t know.”
The homunculus frowned. “This is quite unacceptable. Time is money, after all. Every wasted second is another expense against the Final Profit. You should’ve been prepared.”
“Sorry.”
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