In the Company of Ogres

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.

The darkness brightened, and Belok noticed a vermilion raven perched on his windowsill. The wizard didn’t get up, but he was surprised. The Red Woman had never before paid him a visit.

“Come to taunt me, have you?” he asked.

There was no reply. He glanced around the room, but he didn’t see a hint of the sorceress. Even if she were invisible, he would’ve sensed her presence in his inner sanctum. He turned his head in the raven’s direction.

“Where is she?”

The bird raised its wings in a shrug. “This doesn’t concern her. This is business between us. I’m here to apply for a job.”

“Don’t you already have one?”

The raven ruffled his feathers. “Frankly, I’m a little bored with it. It’s not much fun being her familiar. All she does is mix potions and restore idiots to life — and walk. And walk. She doesn’t just teleport anywhere. It’s always a walk. Even if her magic makes everything a ten-minute journey, it’s still a bit tiresome.”

Belok studied the raven, but it was difficult to read a bird’s face. Even for a wizard. “You want to be my familiar?”

“Why not? You’ve got style, at least. And you don’t walk a lot, do you?”

“No. Not much. But I already have familiars.”

His ghostly maidens became visible by his side. They poured Belok another glass of wine and cooed in his ear.

“Spirits aren’t proper familiars,” said the raven, “and while I can’t caress you, I’d be infinitely more useful.”

Two of the ghosts floated forward and hissed.

“We ravens don’t fear spirits. We show them the way from the netherworld, and when they annoy us, we snatch them in our talons and send them back.”

The bird cawed, and the maidens dissolved into two piles of phantom bones on the floor. The raven chuckled. “I told you spirits aren’t worth much.”

Belok pushed away his paramours. “Why should I believe you?”

“Why shouldn’t you? But I can offer you a good-faith gesture. I can tell you where he is.”

Belok scanned the raven’s face but found nothing to confirm or dispel any suspicions. He was suspicious by nature, but he was also offered the one piece of information he desired more than anything.

“If this is a trick—”

“Why would I bother to trick you? What would I have to gain? He’s in a place called Copper Citadel. It’s in the East-lands. I’m sure a powerful wizard such as yourself doesn’t need directions. Go and see for yourself. What do you have to lose?” The raven turned back to the window. “I’ll be in touch.”

He flew away. At the foot of Belok’s mountain, he perched atop the Red Woman’s staff.

“I don’t know if he believed me.”

“He doesn’t have to believe you,” said the Red Woman. “His desire for revenge will lead him to investigate regardless.”

“I don’t see why you just didn’t tell him yourself,” said the raven.

“He would’ve suspected something.”

“I thought you said it wouldn’t matter if he suspected something.”

“It wouldn’t. But I just wasn’t in the mood to deal with him.”

“Why are you sending him after Ned now anyway?” asked the raven.

“Because it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“I’m not certain.” She smiled. “But it’s time for something.”

She turned and started back to her mountain.

“Can’t we just teleport?”

“Oh, but it’s such a nice night for a walk.”

The raven sighed.