In the Company of Ogres (19 page)
“I guess we should break it up before someone gets seriously hurt,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” agreed Gabel. “Just how do you propose we do that?”
Ned studied the escalating sea of violence before him. Three hundred enraged ogres were definitely going to be trouble. Once they got through the other soldiers, he wondered if their bloodlust would abate. He didn’t consider ogres stupid. Well, he didn’t consider them especially stupid. Not stupider than most anyone else, although Ned had a generally poor opinion of the mean intelligence of the soldiers of Brute’s Legion in specific and the civilians of the world in general.
Miriam gently nudged her way between Ned and Regina. Regina moved the smallest distance to allow the siren to pass.
“Allow me, sir,” said Miriam.
“Can you handle that many men?” asked Gabel.
Miriam glanced back through half-closed eyes. The large black eyes struck Ned as surprisingly beautiful. They caught the morning light, holding it in shimmering depths. That same light glittered off her scales in a heavenly glow.
“Oh, I’m sure our dear Miriam has handled many more men than that in one sitting.” Regina’s voice boiled with frozen acid. Everyone noticed except Ned, who was fairly new to noticing things at all.
“We can’t all despise men with such admirable inflexibility,” said Miriam.
Gabel chuckled. Regina drew the dagger behind her back. An Amazon infant could hurl the blade into Miriam’s exposed throat. Much more creative targets passed through Regina’s mind. Before she could choose the most agonizing point to plunge her dagger, Ned moved a step to the left and put himself in harm’s way. She still considered risking a throw. She was an excellent aim, and Ned would just come back again if she accidentally killed him. He’d probably be upset just the same, and her time in Brute’s Legion had taught her the quality of patience. She could always kill Miriam later. She was confident of that.
The siren turned to the brawl, closed her eyes, and focused her enchanted voice. Her lips parted to send a soft hum across the courtyard. Too light to be heard, the hum vibrated in the air, and the soldiers of Ogre Company proceeded to beat the hell out of each other with subtly less enthusiasm.
She hadn’t been as confident as she pretended. She’d enthralled dozens before, but never a crowd so large. There was enough hostility and frustration present to devour any weaker enchantment cast into the audience. A single missed high note or slip in concentration could blow the whole thing. She wasn’t sure if she was up to it, but there was only one way to find out.
She sang. Her voice danced a delicate, crystalline melody. She wove her spell for a full minute without much effect and was ready to give up when the wind, enticed by her supernatural aria, lifted her off the ground in its loving embrace. The sun caressed her tenderly with its warm, gentle rays, while all the nearby flowers uprooted themselves and ran closer to hear her better. Spurred onward, Miriam sang louder. One by one, soldiers ceased their brawling. They lowered their fists, and wide, goofy grins spread on their faces. The same type of grin that Owens wore.
The goblins, being immune, got the chance to throw in a few cheap shots on their helpless opponents. But they quickly lost interest. It wasn’t very much fun sinking teeth into the ankles of enemies who just stood there grinning. Even kicks in the crotch, dropping soldiers to their knees without removing their smiles, lost much of their satisfaction.
Ned felt the magic too, but Miriam had deliberately avoided enchanting him. She couldn’t shield him from the entire spell, but he remained relatively uncharmed. He just tilted his head slightly and smiled softly, feeling quite pleasant. At the moment Miriam looked like a petite, raven-haired beauty to him—a woman he’d never met in person, who might not even exist except for a fountain statue he’d seen once. “How lovely.”
Regina scowled. “I’ve heard better.”
Ending the song would be the trickiest bit. To just stop singing would unleash the hostility all the stronger. Miriam had to dispel that aggression. She took her time disassembling it, though the strain of the enchanted song wore on her voice. It took another two minutes. Slowly, her melody trailed away, growing softer and softer. The wind set her down. The sun paid her no special attention. And the flowers grew disinterested enough to scamper back to their cracks in the cobblestones. She half expected the brawl to start up again when her voice finally gave out with a harsh crack. Instead, the soldiers stood in a residual daze.
Ned surveyed his troops. He was feeling grand, and so were they from the looks on their faces. He dismissed them while the happy feelings remained. The soldiers dispersed in a mild, yet harmless, stupor.
Miriam, no longer singing, resembled herself again, but was no less beautiful.
“Excellent work, officer.”
The strain of the magic song had reduced her voice to a whisper. “Thank you, sir.”
“Please, call me Ned,” he said. “Could I buy you a drink?”
“I would be honored, Ned.”
“The honor is all mine.”
They headed toward the pub, leaving Regina, Gabel, and Frank behind. Miriam glanced over her shoulder to bat her lashes at the Amazon. The lashes were far too dark and long to belong on that scaly face, mused Regina.
“Isn’t she swell?” said Frank of the siren.
“Exquisite,” agreed Gabel dreamily.
“You idiots,” said Regina, “you’ve been entranced.”
“We most certainly have,” said Frank.
“Entranced by such intoxicating grace and charm,” said Gabel.
They both sighed wistfully.
Two passing goblins disagreed. “Aw, she’s not so great,” said the first.
It was nice someone still had their senses, thought Regina.
“Oh, yeah,” agreed the second, “take away the magic voice and what do you got? Nothing but a sexually adventurous, exotic seductress.”
“With a great ass,” said the first.
“And limber too,” said the second as they passed out of earshot.
Regina growled, harsh and guttural, like an angry mountain cat. She’d lost this battle, but she was determined not to lose the war. Neither her burgeoning sexual desire nor competitive Amazon training allowed for that possibility.
Fifteen
THE IRON FORTRESS of the demon emperor Rucka was, strangely enough, made of stone. But to Rucka’s ear, “Iron” carried a more ominous ring than “Stone.” And as he was the most powerful demon in all the Ten Thousand Hells, there were none who cared to argue the accuracy of the title. Regardless of its erroneous name, Rucka’s fortress was truly a terrifying presence. Carved from blackest obsidian, it was adorned with glittering jade battlements, and decorated with dozens of fearsome gargoyles chained to their perches to leer down upon any timorous creature below. The fortress wasn’t very large as fortresses went, but its defenses were formidable, its infamy awe-inspiring, and its inhabitants unimaginable. It could also outrun every other roaming citadel and ambulant stronghold on the continent, though this was admittedly a very small group.
The Iron Fortress had only lost once, being soundly out-paced by a galloping cottage. The loss bothered Rucka’s pride, and if he should ever set his multitude of eyes upon that cottage again, he intended to see it scorched from the earth. But the cottage and its witch had wisely scampered away before he’d gotten the chance, and the demon had more important concerns than the pursuits of damaged pride. These concerns set Rucka to restlessness, and because he couldn’t leave its walls, the Iron Fortress paced sympathetically.
Currently it strode with great, earthshaking stomps through a lush forest, leaving deep craters and dust clouds in its wake. Occasionally it might crush a village with casual indifference, which mattered not at all to Rucka except for the inconvenience of having to stop every other week to have the mashed peasants cleaned from between the fortress’s toes.
In the meantime, he waited for news from his advance scouts that he might unleash his horde upon the earth and claim the one last thing he needed. He dallied this afternoon in his harem room, surrounded by fifty-one adoring succubi. And he gazed out the window down upon the world that he would one day see cleansed to ash. He had to stand on a stool to enjoy the view as Rucka stood exactly nineteen inches tall.
He wasn’t a particularly terrifying demon at a glance. Stocky and purple with three black horns, four gray wings, four arms, and a long, long tail. He was covered in eyes, each a different shape and shade. They spread down his face, across his chest and back, running along his limbs. When Rucka blinked, his lids scraped audibly against his dry eyes, and those who knew him trembled at the sound.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” asked a dark-haired demon. She was one of his favorites, though he couldn’t be bothered to remember her name. Or anyone’s name. He just called his minions by whatever name struck his fancy, and should they fail to answer, he usually destroyed them for their insolence.
“Nothing.”
“Come here and let Momma make it all better.”
She took him in her arms, cradling him like a swollen, deformed infant to her ample, heaving bosom. This particular succubus had a talent for bosom heaving, and he smiled despite his ill humor.
“What’s wrong?” She poked his tummy playfully. The red eye where his bellybutton should be blinked and watered, and Rucka chuckled.
“What is always wrong?” he replied.
“The war,” cooed a blond demon who had a special talent for cooing her dialogue. “Always the war.”
“But you’ve won, haven’t you, sweetie?” asked his dark-haired favorite.
“I’m winning. I’ve not won.”
“It’s only a matter of time, my love,” consoled an orange-skinned concubine.
Rucka leapt to his feet. His many eyes glared venom, and the consort tried to apologize. Before the words could come, he snapped his fingers, and she dissolved into a festering puddle.
“Time I have enough of. It’s patience I find myself lacking.”
His remaining consorts paused. Then the favorite spoke up.
“How many more, dear, dear master? How many more do you need?”
His glare passed over her, and he was but a gesture from destroying her when he reconsidered. Rucka had a special fondness for heaving bosoms, and she prudently heaved hers as never before.
All of his eyes burned and smoldered with hunger. Black clouds choked the air of his harem chamber, and his demon lovers, accustomed to sooty air, still gagged.
“One.”
Rucka flapped his wings, and the smoke blasted through the window and soared, screaming, into the atmosphere, where it devoured a flock of migrating ducks—feathers, bones, and all.
The demon king sighed. His irritation was spent for the moment, but it would return soon enough. He dropped into a mound of pillows made of the tender skin of elven nobles.
His concubines crowded around. His favorite stroked his horns and whispered sweet blasphemies in his ear to keep him calm. No one liked a rankled demon emperor, especially not his minions.
The chamber doors opened wide and several barbed imps entered, crawling on their hands and knees, their heads held low, their noses scraping the floor. Rucka was in just pleasant enough temper not to destroy them outright for their interruption.
“We beg your forgiveness, oh cursed and merciless sire.”
Rucka pushed away his harem. His eyes darkened. His tiny claws dripped venom onto the bare floor. The Iron Fortress trembled painfully. “This had better be important. Your death shall be one of agony.”
The imps crept aside, and an ice demon came in. He knelt low before his master, and the news he gave was of such importance that Rucka, much to everyone’s surprise including his own, didn’t destroy anyone. Although he did maim several imps just to stay in practice.
And the Iron Fortress ceased its aimless meandering and strode with inexorable purpose toward Copper Citadel.
Belok’s fortress didn’t move. It stayed firmly put atop an inaccessible mountain peak. It had seen better days. Once it’d brimmed with magical artifacts and fantastical creatures, but his curse demanded their relocation to the dark, dank basement, far from the high tower where Belok sulked.
The wizard spent a great deal of his time sulking. When he wasn’t scouring the world for objects of ancient power in his vain quest to get the Red Woman to speak her secrets, he was usually sitting on his throne, drinking wine and moping. He liked to think of himself as brooding sinisterly, but more accurately, he pouted.
He was very good at it. Like many powerful wizards, he had a great deal in common with spoiled children. He could focus his inflated sense of entitlement into a sulk so heavy and impenetrable not even light could escape its surface, and time could barely seep its way out around the edges. He could waste weeks in one of these moods, though to the outside world it might appear only minutes. But even the ill temper of wizards had its limits, and eventually it would pass.
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