In the Company of Ogres (11 page)
Ward hesitated, and the bird could’ve easily fled. Instead it glared back at him with its cold, black eyes. Eyes like polished glass. Merciless and cruel and hungry.
He lowered his shovel. “Go on, little fella. Have another bite.”
The vulture smiled—at least it seemed so to Ward—and pecked some more at its breakfast.
“How do you think he died?” asked Ward.
Ralph sniffed the air. “I smell magic. Maybe that’s what did him in.”
Ward shooed away the buzzard. It hopped only a short distance away. Ward bent over and turned Ned on his back. A small burn mark showed on his chest. It didn’t look like much, but it must’ve been enough to kill him. The face had been spared the vulture’s sharp beak, but Ward blanched at the body’s puffy grimace. “He sure dies a lot for a guy named Never Dead Ned.”
“Yup.”
Ward turned Ned facedown. He ignored the corpse for a while and joined Ralph at work. The vulture hopped over cautiously and tore off pieces of Ned’s flesh, which it gobbled down its snapping beak. After they’d plucked the last of the weeds, Ward asked, “Should we bury him?”
Sneering, Ralph rubbed his jaw. “We’re not supposed to bury him. Those were his orders.”
“Maybe he changed his mind,” said Ward. “Maybe he decided he was ready to be buried, and that’s why he’s out here. Only he didn’t time it right and died before he could get back in his grave.”
“Sounds pretty stupid to me.”
“Why else would he be out here?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care.” Ralph pulled back his leg to kick the corpse, but thought better of it. “Orders are orders. If he wanted to be buried, he should’ve told us.”
“We can’t just leave him out here,” said Ward.
“Why not?”
“He’ll get eaten by wolves or vultures or something.”
“So what?”
“He is our commander, Ralph.”
“He was our commander.” This time Ralph kicked Ned, though not too hard for fear of perhaps shocking the corpse back to life. “Now he’s just a dead asshole. Let him rot, I say.”
Ralph had been rubbing his jaw since finding Ned. He hadn’t forgotten Ned’s punch. The jaw was fine, but it was still a wound to his pride. Ward, on the other hand, had developed a begrudging admiration for this human. Ned hadn’t seemed like such a bad guy, and after that drunken punch, Ward deemed the human either very brave or very stupid. Both qualities were well appreciated by ogres. Bravery for obvious reasons. Stupidity because it was just plain amusing.
Scowling, Ralph ran his fingers along his chin, and Ward smiled.
“What’s so gods damned funny?” growled Ralph.
Ward ignored the question. “Dead or not, I like the guy.” He scared away the vulture and threw Ned over his shoulder. “I’m taking him back and seeing what Frank wants to do with him.”
They started back, and the vulture followed. Ward stopped and smiled at the scavenger.
“Oh, no,” said Ralph, “we’re not keeping him.”
“But look at him. How can you turn away that face?”
Ralph looked into those black eyes set in the featherless, wrinkled pink head. The vulture spread its wide black wings with sparse feathers and screeched. Ralph shook his head slowly. “Fine, but you clean up after him. I’m not doing it.”
Ward peeled off some loose bits of Ned’s skin. He was sure the commander wouldn’t mind. Then he fed them to the bird. It hopped onto his empty shoulder. Its talons drew blood, just like Mister Nibbles used to, and Ward, a tear in his eye, smiled.
The gravediggers headed back to the citadel. They passed the installation’s command center, which had long ago been taken over by goblins and converted into a recreation room. No one knew exactly what went on behind those closed doors, what sort of depravity goblins enjoyed in their spare time. And no one over four feet high wanted to know. One of the previous commanders, a man of storm and fury, had tried to reclaim the room from the goblins. Three minutes behind the doors, he’d emerged pale and shivering. He never uttered a single word of what he saw, but there’d been madness in his eyes ever after. And two months later, when he’d been crushed beneath an avalanche of mead barrels, he’d died with a thankful grin on his face.
“Applesauce,” he’d wheezed with his final breath. “Dear gods, the applesauce.”
Since then the goblins had been left to their own. The center of power for Copper Citadel had shifted to the next most logical place: the pub. Ralph and Ward found Frank sharing a drink with the twins. They sat at one of the tables just beside the pub in the open courtyard.
Ward dropped Ned’s corpse in an empty chair. “We found the commander, sir. He was in the graveyard.”
Private Lewis held out an open palm. “You owe me a silver piece, Brother. I told you he hadn’t deserted.”
Corporal Martin, having command of the right side of their body, reached into his belt pouch and tossed a coin to his brother, who caught it and stuffed it back into the very same pouch.
“Serves me right, Lewis,” said Martin. “Always think the best of everyone. That’s what Mother always said.”
“Surely she was a wise woman,” agreed Lewis.
Ned fell over. His head cracked loudly against the table.
Frank grabbed the body by the hair and glanced at the face. He let go, and Ned slumped. Frank swished his mead in his tankard. “Fragile sort, isn’t he?”
“Must be all that practice he’s had dying,” remarked Martin.
“Practice makes perfect,” seconded Lewis. “Such dedication is an inspiration to us all.”
Gravedigger Ralph said, “He’s your problem now, sir. I’m getting a beer.” Muttering and still rubbing his jaw, he disappeared into the pub.
“That’s a scrawny buzzard there,” said Frank. “Not much good eating.”
The vulture screeched, turning its head to glare at Frank.
“He’s not for eating, sir.” Ward help up his arm. The vulture traipsed down Ward’s limb. Its talons dug shallow scratches in his thick ogre flesh. The bird spread its wings and affectionately pecked at its master’s fingers with its pointed beak. “Once I get him healthy, I thought we might make the little guy into the company mascot. With your permission, sir.”
“Just don’t get him too healthy, private. Feast of Saint Carrion is right around the corner, and Legion supply might not send down enough vultures for the occasion.” Frank pushed Ned aside so he could put his feet up on the table. “Got a name yet?”
“Yes, sir. Nibbly Ned. In honor of our commander.”
“I’m sure he’ll be touched by the homage.”
Ward and Nibbly Ned went into the pub to fetch a drink. Several nearby ogres eyed Nibbly while licking their lips.
“Copper piece says Nibbly won’t make it through the month.” said Lewis.
“Ten days,” said Martin. The twins shook hands to make the bet official.
“What, may I inquire, sir, do you plan on doing with the commander?” asked Lewis.
Frank eyed the corpse. “I don’t know. In a normal situation like this we usually just bury the human. But this isn’t a normal situation.”
“Mother had a smashing recipe for human soup,” said Martin.
“Dear brother,” countered Lewis, “though I loved Mother’s cooking every bit as much as you, I really must point out the impropriety of eating a superior officer. It simply isn’t done.”
“Of course, Martin. It was merely a recollection, not a suggestion.”
“I’ve never eaten a human before,” said Frank. “They must be prepared just right, and even then it’s usually not worth the trouble. Tastes like gopher.”
“I hate to contradict you, Brother, but humans do not taste like gophers. Gophers taste like humans.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Martin. But in either case, gophers and humans are not very good eating.”
Frank, having tasted neither, had no opinion and left the twins to their culinary discussions. He finished his drink, grabbed Ned by the hair, and dragged the body across the courtyard. Ned’s boot heels thumped against the cobblestones. It didn’t take Frank long to find Regina, who was busy with a training exercise.
Training in Ogre Company was voluntary. In truth, most everything in Ogre Company was voluntary in the sense that there were no consequences for skipping it. Discipline had long ago deserted the installation. But Regina rather enjoyed the martial arts, and she practiced for three or four hours every day, drawing a regular audience. The soldiers pretended to study, but they were really there to ogle her athletic form as she grunted and sweated in her two-piece training gear. It was the only time ogling was allowed since she took combat training too seriously to notice. Sometimes her students practiced alongside her. Sometimes they even learned something. And on occasion one or two would openly challenge her to a sparring match. She remained undefeated.
At present she was busy hacking away at a straw dummy with a scimitar. The blade was a whirling flash. It cut the dummy with dozens of shallow slashes. Straw flew in the air for a solid minute before Regina ended her demonstration and sheathed the blade.
“You must be losing your touch,” said Frank.
“I was merely demonstrating the death of a thousand nips. You have to imagine all that straw is blood to understand the full beauty of the technique.”
Frank had never developed a taste for fancy swordplay. Ogre tactics rarely grew more sophisticated than smashing opponents until they stopped twitching. As a very large ogre, his weapon of choice was a nice, solid tree trunk. The technique had never failed him. In a duel, Frank expected he could best Regina, but all that blood littering the ground (even in straw form) gave him pause.
“We have to talk to Gabel.” He held up Ned.
“Oh, hell.” She drew her sword, spun around, beheaded the training dummy, and put away her weapon in one fluid motion. Her audience applauded with much appreciation, both for her technique and the slippage of her top’s neckline to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her bosom. She toweled her glistening flesh, so distracted by Ned’s corpse that she didn’t notice the leering soldiers.
“Lesson over. Tomorrow we’ll cover the pike with particular emphasis on gouging and impaling. If there’s time, I’ll demonstrate the proper way to mount a head.” She threw a less revealing robe around her shoulders, and her students dispersed.
Frank, grasping Ned by the neck, shook the body. Its stiffened limbs flopped like a cheap marionette. “He’s dead.”
Regina cupped Ned’s chin and stared into his single, glassy eye. “How?”
Frank lowered his voice. “You don’t know?”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything.” He dropped Ned, who fell in a heap to the ground. “I’m asking you directly. Did you kill him?”
“No, I didn’t,” she replied. “Did you?”
“Don’t be absurd. I know the agreement.”
“So do I.” She snarled. “None of us gets rid of a commander without first discussing it. That’s the agreement that I’ve sworn to, and an Amazon never breaks her word.”
They wasted a moment on an exchange of furtive, mistrustful glances.
“Gabel must’ve done it,” Regina said finally. “Never trust an orc to keep his word. Especially an orc that’s really a goblin.”
Frank nodded. “I guess we should have a talk with him. This could be trouble.”
She readily agreed. The three ranking officers of Ogre Company had taken a more active role in their advancement opportunities, but all their previous
accidents
had been neatly above suspicion. But Ned was dead with no clear cause, and that was sure to draw attention. Ogre Company’s run of fatally poor luck might not stand against closer scrutiny. It wasn’t like Gabel to make such a mistake, but perhaps he’d just grown impatient, they guessed.
accidents
had been neatly above suspicion. But Ned was dead with no clear cause, and that was sure to draw attention. Ogre Company’s run of fatally poor luck might not stand against closer scrutiny. It wasn’t like Gabel to make such a mistake, but perhaps he’d just grown impatient, they guessed.
On the way to see Gabel, Frank dragged Ned by his leg. Regina, marching directly behind, found herself staring at her commander. Some incomprehensible, alien sensation stirred within her. It wasn’t pity. She had none for the dead. Nor was it guilt. Killing was her profession, and she had little moral qualm with slaying anyone who got in her way. All the previous commanders had been buffoons. She’d seen nothing in Ned to make her think he would’ve been any different. But as his head bounced against the cobblestones, she found that unidentifiable stimulation remained.
“Do you have to carry him like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Like that. He’s lost half his scalp.”
Frank stopped and saw bits of hair and skin trailing behind them. “I don’t hear him complaining.”
She didn’t know why she cared, but she did regardless. “Just let me carry him.” She gathered Ned in her arms. He stank a little of decay, but she hardly noticed. She gazed into his bloated face and for some unfathomable reason, she smiled.
“Should I leave the two of you alone?” asked Frank.
Her only comment was a harsh grunt. She tossed Ned over her shoulder and proceeded to Gabel’s office. He was busy filling out forms, something he did with clockwork precision. Brute’s Legion was a never-ending struggle against a tide of paperwork, and to fall behind was to court disaster. Gabel was displeased by the interruption, but even more so by the reason.
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