In the Company of Ogres (43 page)
He pulled back suddenly and started getting dressed.
“Ned, are you okay?” she asked.
“Great. I’m a boob. A complete, utter screwup. But I’m supposed to be, so that’s the good news.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He pulled on some breeches and grabbed his shirt. “But do you want to know something else?” He gave her a peck and ran his tongue across his lips. “I think I’m beginning to like the taste of fish.”
He exited the tent, and smiling, she followed him.
It was cold outside, but he didn’t seem to notice. He strolled briskly through the citadel, grinning and waving at everyone. Many of the soldiers didn’t recognize him without his scars, but they waved back. Most of Ogre Company was working to fix the damaged citadel, which had to be rebuilt from the ground up after its last siege.
A woolly ox pulling a cart of stones stopped and nodded in Ned’s direction.
“Good to see you too, Seamus,” replied Ned.
The ox snorted and continued on its way.
Ned stopped suddenly. “Oh, no. The deadline. Did I miss the deadline?”
“Don’t worry, sir. The Legion decided we weren’t such a waste of resources after all, once we filed a report on the doomsday battle with the demon army. They didn’t believe us at first. Until we had a goddess testify on our behalf. Even upper management couldn’t argue with that.”
They passed Elmer, who seemed to be deriving excessive pleasure from driving nails into boards. So much so that he didn’t notice Ned. But Ulga paused conjuring nails and waved at him. Lewis and Martin busily stacked stones in a large pile, but the twins still took the time to salute, and Ned saluted back.
Miriam held out his coat. “Aren’t you cold?”
He slipped it on. “Thanks.” “No problem, Ned.”
He leaned in to kiss her again.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Regina.
Ned froze mid-lean. “Archmajor, how are you?”
“Very well, sir,” the Amazon replied, “and you?”
“Pretty good.”
Frank appeared. His hands were bandaged. Ogre bones were slow to heal, but they’d mended enough to allow the use of his fingers. He had a black eye and a fresh purple bruise on his shoulder. He carried a club in one hand, a spear in the other. “Hey, Ned.”
Ned bobbed his head in Frank’s direction. “Hey, Frank.”
“Good to have you back, sir.” He tossed Regina the spear. “Are you ready?”
“Sure.” She nodded at Ned. “Take care, sir.”
The ogre and the Amazon walked away. Frank put his hand on her back, and she didn’t seem to mind.
“Are they dating now?” asked Ned.
“About four months,” said Miriam, “if you can call it dating. They mostly just beat the hell out of each other, and have drinks after. But Frank should best her any day now. Then they can get on with it.”
Ned wasn’t so certain of Frank’s victory. He was a formidable warrior, but no one could match Regina when it came down to sheer stubbornness. But one day after her fierce Amazon pride had been satisfied, she’d let him win.
“Maybe after he gets that promotion to commander,” thought Ned aloud.
“But you’re commander, sir,” said Miriam.
“Not anymore. I’m through with it, through with soldiering. I can’t make up for everything the Void’s done, but I can at least put aside my sword. Besides, I was always a terrible soldier. Frank is the best one for the job. He’s good with the men, and he’s big enough to keep their respect.”
“Regina isn’t going to like that.”
“She’ll get over it.”
The citadel was a jumble of tents now, but one building had been rebuilt. The new pub was not strictly up to code. The ceiling was a little low for ogres, and the structure leaned a bit to the left. It might collapse in a month or two, but it appeared safe for now. And Ned was thirsty.
Stepping inside the darkened building, he was immediately greeted with a round of cheers. Ward slapped Ned across the shoulder, sending Ned sprawling across the floor.
“Whoops,” said Ward. “Sorry about that, sir.” He helped Ned up. “What kept you?”
“Exploding galaxies takes a lot out of a guy,” replied Ned.
“In that case, sir,” said Ward, “let me be the first to buy you a drink.”
Nibbly Ned shifted on his perch on Ward’s shoulder. The vulture stared Ned right in the eye. Ned stared right back, and Nibbly blinked first. The bird tucked his head under a wing.
They bellied up to a bar that, though just right for ogres, was a little too high for humans. Owens and Sally were working behind the counter. The salamander roasted various cuts of meat, while Owens tended bar. He presented Ned with a smile and a drink.
“What is it?” asked Ned.
“It’s what you want,” replied the oracle. “Trust me, sir. And that steak you planned on ordering is on its way. How’s it coming, Sally?”
“Almost done.” She eyed the piece of meat she was breathing on. “You wanted it rare, right?”
“Medium rare,” answered Owens. “Right, sir?”
Ned actually wanted it well done, but he didn’t feel like contradicting the oracle. Anyway, who was to say that he didn’t want it medium rare? The oracle might know something he didn’t.
“So what do you hear for tomorrow?” asked Ned.
“Oh, nothing much, sir. Death, destruction, chaos, strife, and conflict. Business as usual.” Owens tilted his head and listened. “And a spot of rain.”
Goblins had to take turns standing on each other’s shoulders in stacks of three to place their orders. Ace balanced atop an unsteady pole of drunken goblins.
“To Never Dead Ned,” toasted Ace. “Nobody dies better.”
The soldiers smashed their mugs together, shattering most of them. Ace’s tower toppled, but he managed impressively to land on his back without spilling a drop. He jumped to his feet and downed the drink just before a wave of goblins jumped on his back and started shouting their orders.
Miriam tapped her glass gently against Ned’s. “But if you’re not going to be a soldier anymore, what are you going to do?”
Ned shrugged. “I’ll figure out something.”
She moved closer and took his hand.
He frowned at the burn scar on her wrist where the Mad Void had touched her. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She smoothed his hair. “You know, Ned, you don’t have to be a soldier to stay here. I hear there’s an opening for a gardener.”
“Is that so?”
“So how are you at gardening, Ned?”
He took a long draft of ale and slammed the mug on the counter.
“Absolutely terrible.”
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A NAMELESS WITCH
by A. Lee Martinez
Available May 2007
in Hardcover and Trade Paperback
in Hardcover and Trade Paperback
0-765-31868-7 (Hardcover)
0-765-31548-3 (Trade paperback)
I WAS BORN DEAD. Or, to be more accurate, undead. Not that there is much difference between the two. It’s just a matter of degrees really.
When I say undead, I do not mean vampyre, ghoul, or graveyard fiend. There are many versions of unlife. These are only the most common. My state was far less debilitating. Bright lights bothered me to some noticeable degree, and I preferred my meat undercooked. Once reaching adult-hood, I’d become ageless. Most means of mortal harm could not truly hurt me, and I possessed a smattering of unusual gifts not known among the living. Yet all these advantages came at a high price.
Exactly how I came to be born undead is a long, complicated story not really worth telling in detail. It involves my great-great-great-great-grandfather, a renowned hero of the realm, and his conflict with a dark wizard. This wizard, his name is lost to history so I just call him “Nasty Larry” for convenience’s sake, had raised an army of orcish zombies to ravage the land. Now everyone knows ores are terrible things, and zombies aren’t much fun either. Mix the two together and you get an evil greater than the sum of its parts. Naturally, a legion of heroes was assembled, and the requisite last stand against doomsday was fought and won by a hair’s breadth. My great-great-great-great-grandfather slew Nasty Larry, cleaving his head from his shoulders with one sweep of a mighty broadsword. Nasty Larry’s head rolled to his slayer’s feet and pronounced a terrible curse as decapitated wizard’s heads are prone to do.
“With my dying breath, I curse thee and thy bloodline. From now until the end of time, the sixth child of every generation shall be made a gruesome abomination. A twisted, horrible thing that shall shun the light and dwell in miserable darkness.”
That bit of business finished, Nasty Larry died. According to legend, he melted into a puddle, the sky turned black, and—if one could believe such tales—the land within a hundred miles turned to inhospitable swamp. That was the end of Nasty Larry’s small, yet noteworthy, influence on my life.
I often wondered why my parents chose to have a sixth child, being forewarned as they were. They had many excuses. The most common being, “We lost count.” Second common, and far more acceptable in my opinion, was “Well, none of our family had ever had six, and we thought it might not have taken.” Perfectly reasonable. Not all curses grab hold, and one couldn’t live one’s life fretting over every utterance of every bodiless head one ran across.
Being undead was not all that horrible a curse. Unfortunately, this was not the end of my worries. For besides being made a thing born to dwell in darkened misery, I was also made, in the infinite wisdom of fate, a girl. These two conditions taken individually were minor handicaps, but toss them together, and you would understand the difficulties I experienced growing up.
There are kingdoms where a woman is prized for her mind, where she is more than a trophy or a poorly paid housemaid. Kingdoms where the chains of a thousand years of chauvinism have finally rusted away. I was not born in one of these kingdoms.
I was not very popular amongst the male suitors of my village. It was nothing personal. Husbands just prefer living wives, and I met so few potential spouses locked in my parents’ basement. At the age of eighteen, I was already an old, undead maid sitting in a darkened cellar, waiting to die.
Of course, I don’t die. Not like normal people. Certainly, old age wouldn’t accomplish the task. So I settled in for a very long wait. I figured it would be another fifty years before my parents died, and one of my brothers or sisters would inherit caretaking duties of their poor, wretched sibling. One of their children would take over next. And so on. And so on. Until one day, they either forgot me, or all died, or maybe, just maybe, an angry mob would drag me from the shadows and burn me at the stake. Not much to look forward to. But no one is master of their fate, and my lot was not all that terrible in the end.
All that changed with the arrival of Ghastly Edna. That wasn’t her real name. I never learned it. I just called her “Ghastly Edna” because it seemed a proper witch’s name. She was a grotesquely large woman, bear-like in proportions, with a pointed hat, a giant hooked nose, and a long, thin face. Her skin, while not truly green, possessed a slick, olive hue. Her nose even had a wart. Ghastly Edna’s only flaw, witchly speaking, was a set of perfectly straight, perfectly polished teeth.
The day I met Ghastly Edna changed everything, and I remember it well. The basement door opened. I scrambled to the foot of the stairs to collect my daily meal. Instead, she came lumbering down. Her bulky frame clouded the light filtering behind her. She placed a callused hand under my chin and smiled thinly.
“Yes, yes. You shall do, child.”
Ghastly Edna purchased me from my parents for a puny sum. I’m certain they were glad to be rid of their cursed daughter, and I couldn’t honestly blame them. My new mentor whisked me away to her cottage in the middle of some forsaken woods far from civilization. The first thing she did was clean me up. It took six long hours to wash away the accumulated filth of eighteen years and cut the tangle of hair atop my head. When she finally finished, she stood me before a small mirror and frowned.
“No, no, no. I do not like this. I do not like this one bit.”
The effect this had on my self-esteem was immediate and crushing. I’d always known myself to be a hideous thing. Yet Ghastly Edna was no prize beauty herself, and to evoke such a revolted tone could only mean that Nasty Larry’s curse had really had its way with me.
“You’re not ugly, child,” she corrected. “You’re quite—” Her long face squished itself into a scowl “—lovely.”
I had yet to dare looking in the mirror for fear of being driven mad by own hideousness. Now I chanced a sidelong glance through the corner of my eye. It was not the sanity-twisting sight I had expected, but still a far cry from lovely.
“But what about these?” I cupped the large, fatty mounds on my chest.
“Those are breasts,” Ghastly Edna said. “They’re supposed to be there.”
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