In the Company of Ogres (10 page)
“Do you really raid villages and kidnap young women?” asked Seamus.
“That practice created too much political tension amongst our neighbors and was abandoned long ago. Sometimes we do capture prisoners of war. Or buy criminals and exiles. If a male is of truly exceptional stock, we’ve been known to use him for our purposes.”
“Sounds erotic.” Seamus leered. “Is there a secret seduction ceremony? A glorious feast where the condemned man is treated to a thousand sensual delights before being brought to the height of passion until, utterly sexed to death, he expires with an eternal smile on his face?”
“Not exactly. Although there is a procedure.”
The word “procedure” removed much of the fun from the fantasy for Seamus, but he’d come too far to turn back now. “What’s it like?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Is it a secret?”
“No, but you’ll just be disappointed.”
He grabbed her skirt. Yet another perilous act he did without a second thought. “Oh, come on.”
She yanked her skirt away and kicked him to the ground. “We tie them to a bed, have sex with them, then do away with them.”
Remaining sitting, the goblin’s eyes gleamed with obscene possibilities. “What kind of bed?”
“A normal kind of bed.”
“What kind of sex?”
“Functional, efficient sex.”
He was unwilling to abandon the fantasy just yet. “How do you kill them? Some kind of poisonous kiss? Or do you squeeze the life out of them between your powerful thighs?”
“We usually just stab them with a dagger.” She grinned. “Sometimes we behead them.”
“Does the executioner wear a black hood and nothing else? Her naked body glistening with dewy perspiration. Her heaving breasts jiggling as she delivers the deathblow.”
“Eunuchs handle Amazon executions.”
“Oh.” Frowning, he rose. “Isn’t as sexy as I’d hoped.”
“I warned you. That custom isn’t common anymore. Too impractical. We’ve no way of guaranteeing the child produced will be female, and if it’s male, you end up wasting nine months.
“Now we mostly purchase young girls, ages five to seven, and initiate them into the nation. Many of our neighboring countries breed girls specifically for our needs. It’s the fourth largest industry in the region.”
“Sound very ...” Seamus sighed. “Mercantile.”
They walked a while more.
“So if you don’t live with men, and you don’t capture men, then what do you do for companionship?”
“All Amazons share the strongest bonds of sisterhood.”
“Great, great. Sisterhood. Beautiful thing.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “But I’m talking about companionship. Y’know?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Y’know. Affection. Intimacy. Of the physical sort?” He ran through a rapid series of obscene gestures, half of which Regina didn’t recognize. But she got the idea.
“We Amazons abandoned that ridiculous preoccupation centuries ago.”
“You can’t just abandon it. We all have needs.” Seamus waggled his eyebrows. “You can’t tell me it hasn’t ever crossed your mind. Especially after you’ve spent a hard day slaying those oh-so-wicked men, and you’re huddled in a tent with a couple of your Amazon sisters. Their trembling bodies sticky with sweat as they cling to you. Moist, hot, nubile skin. One of your tentmates pulls you close. Her warm breath is soft on your neck. Her long, red hair brushes across your pert bosom. Her nimble fingers move across your taut thighs to find your quivering—”
He never saw the punch coming. It succeeded in knocking him a good distance but failed to wipe away his grin. Regina, sword drawn, stood over him.
She’d heard these rumors too, and there was some truth in them. Not all her sisters were as strong as she. Many had succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh, but Regina knew carnal desires as the supreme distraction they were, whether found with a man or a woman.
“You’ll never mention any quivering parts of my anatomy again if you want to keep on living.”
“Okay, okay. Can’t kill a guy for having a fantasy. It’s healthy to daydream.”
She put her foot on him and pressed. He gasped but smiled. “Y’know, I can see up your skirt from this angle. Right to your quivering—”
He narrowly avoided being skewered through the face by transforming into an anvil. Her sword clanged loudly. Regina tapped the flat of the blade against him.
“Come out, you vile little coward. Face me as a man.”
Seamus took on his natural form again. “Firstly, I’m not a man. I’m a goblin. Secondly, I thought all men were supposed to be cowards.”
She tried to slice off his head, but he was quicker. Her sword bounced off a granite replica of the goblin, his tongue sticking out. Regina circled him, but he remained stubbornly immobile. He was either trapped, as sometimes happened, or just too fearful.
She picked him up and whispered in his stone ear. “Listen well, you little beast. If I ever catch you speaking such disgusting ideas, if I even suspect you are merely daydreaming of such base heresy, I’ll chop off all your loose little goblin bits. Am I making myself clear?”
The statue of Seamus only leered. She suspected he was defying her right now, his stony brain playing degrading images of steamy Amazonian bathhouses and naked pillow fights. She pondered teaching him a lesson by chipping away his tongue. But her temper settled as quickly as it flared, and she wasn’t in the mood to bother. Instead, she dropped him in the citadel well. She waited for some time, seeing if the cold water might spur him into taking on a more vulnerable form.
In the meantime, she uncorked her jug of conjured wine and drank heartily. The horrible brew comforted her. It tasted much like the special concoction young Amazons imbibed to make them big and strong.
She considered Seamus’s absurd notion of the value of sex. She didn’t see the purpose. Her time was better spent training her body and mind in the art of war. And while occasionally an Amazon might take a lover under very special circumstances, this was not one of those circumstances. Ned was just a man. A beautiful, immortal man. But that was not enough.
Yet the mere thought of him, of his scarred, disfigured flesh, sent a tremble through her. And certain parts that she avoided thinking about did indeed quiver.
“Damn it.” She took another tug of wine.
Nothing came out of the well. Not even a fly. Although she didn’t know if Seamus could become a fly. Regina tossed the jug over her shoulder, and it shattered on the cobblestones. Scowling, she continued on her way.
A little while later a tarantula crawled cautiously out of the well. Seamus looked around for a moment before shifting into a goat, bouncing amorously toward the meadows.
Eight
NED, WHO’D NEVER been concerned with courage or honor, still didn’t have a taste for desertion. He had thought about it. He was only human. Even during boot camp, he wasn’t sure a soldier’s life was for him. Even so, he didn’t like the idea. He’d planned on waiting for his Legion contract to expire. Four more years and he’d walk away from his military career. He could suffer his many deaths along the way. He could keep his end of the deal.
But the deal had changed. The Berserker Program was just asking too much of Ned. When the training succeeded, a soldier transformed into a mindless killing savage. When it failed, a soldier just became mindless. Either way, a berserker was taught to embrace death, but embracing death had never been Ned’s strongest point. He was left with only one choice.
Two choices, technically. He could put all his military and accounting experience to use, and turn Ogre Company around with some luck. The only problem with that was while Ned was a damn fine accountant, he’d never been much of a soldier. Nor much of a leader. His one and only previous position of authority had been commanding a platoon in a skirmish against some troublesome brownies. The memory still haunted him.
To most everyone, brownies were tiny furballs. It was the name. It made them sound cuddly, harmless. But to anyone who’d ever faced them in combat, they were four inches of bloodthirsty terror. Their hideous battle cries still haunted him. The profane insults as they hurled their small spears. The weapons weren’t sharp enough to break the skin, but they stung like hell. Worse than the spears were their harsh claws and vicious teeth. Brownies didn’t play around. They pulled hair, bit ears, clawed at eyes, stuck their spears up any available orifice. A good codpiece was essential when fighting brownies.
They’d come without warning that night, swarming from the overgrown brush. There was chaos. Soldiers screamed. Brownies swore. All those tiny voices raining down profanities. They particularly delighted in assaulting one’s parentage. He recalled with fresh terror the fuzzy enemy clamped onto his nose. Ned had been struggling to pull the creature off his face when one of his own men, in a careless flailing fit, had stabbed Ned in the back. As Ned lay dying, the brownie screamed a particularly hurtful remark about Ned’s mother. Ned had never known his mother. Nor could he remember his childhood. But the remark seemed unnecessary and just plain wrong.
Ned had come back to life to find his platoon decimated, having killed each other in their panic. A victory for the enemy and a black mark on Ned’s record. It wasn’t easy to explain, and he hadn’t bothered to try. The brutal savagery of brownies was something to be experienced directly. He’d hoped for a discharge. It hadn’t happened, though he couldn’t say why. His only guess was that the Legion still believed an immortal soldier worth having, if only for the novelty value.
The incident had been covered up to preserve the Legion’s reputation. Teams of elementalists were called in to scorch the monsters and their woodlands to the bare earth, to wipe away all traces of the slaughter. Ned hadn’t forgotten. Most of his deaths meant little to him. He’d grown inured to perishing. But this one still bothered him. It’d been a year before he could stand the sight of small rodents. He still broke out in a cold sweat at the sight of jackrabbits, with their resemblance to brownie warbunnies, and gerbils, a dead likeness to brownies themselves if standing upright.
Ogre Company would be better off without him, and he would be better off without Ogre Company. It might’ve been cowardly, but it was the truth. It was time to run, dig deep, and hide away. He hoped his novelty value wouldn’t encourage the Legion to dispatch retrievers. But one problem at a time.
He waited until midnight and slipped away under cover of darkness. He traveled light, just the clothes on his back and a pack with a jug of Ulga’s wine and some bread. The faster he was out of here, the better. As expected, the citadel’s sparse, undisciplined night sentries were busy sleeping, drinking, or sleeping off drinking. He sneaked away, right through the front gates of Copper Citadel, without the slightest difficulty.
He passed by the graveyard on his way and stopped to read the headstones of the previous commanders, including his own beside his open grave. He didn’t feel so bad about doing this.
A crimson lightning bolt arced from the shadows and struck Ned in his chest. He died before he’d even realized it, falling upon his own grave.
The Red Woman stepped from the darkness. Her staff glowed.
“Why’d you do that?” asked her raven.
“I have my reasons,” she replied.
The Red Woman had resurrected Ned many, many times, but she’d never before killed him. She waved her staff over him, and Ned gasped. He hadn’t drawn in his first breath before she zapped him with another bolt. He died before he could open his eyes.
The raven hopped to her other shoulder. “What was the purpose of that?”
“No purpose. Just seeing how it was on the other end of things.”
“And how was it?”
“Oddly satisfying.”
She turned and walked away, leaving Ned to rot atop his grave.
Nine
IT WASN’T UNTIL late morning that Ned’s absence was discovered, and it wasn’t until late afternoon that his corpse was found by the gravediggers Ralph and Ward. In addition to planting bodies, they were also responsible for keeping the cemetery tended. They were prepared for their weekly weeding, and instead found their new commander sprawled across his own plot. Neither knew what to make of it.
“Is he dead?” asked Ward.
Ralph nodded. “Yup.”
“What’s he doing out here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Looks a little bloated, doesn’t he?”
“Yup.”
“Should we scare away that vulture?”
The large scavenging bird atop Ned picked at his flesh. It’d just found the meal and hadn’t done much damage yet.
“Do what you want.” Ralph rubbed his jaw. “I’ve got weeding to do.”
He went to work. Ward watched the vulture chew on Ned’s ear a while. He’d raised a vulture as a boy and had grown to love it. Then came the Feast of Saint Carrion, a revered ogre holiday, and his mother had slaughtered Mister Nibbles and served him for dinner. This vulture resembled Mister Nibbles only in passing. It was a thin, gawky sort of buzzard. Not the healthy fat bird he’d cherished. But it had the same spirit, the same boldness, to not fly away as he approached. He patted it once on its head. Then raised his shovel to brain it. He loved buzzards. Especially in cream sauce.
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