In the Company of Ogres

Two

Gabel the orc slammed his mug against the table. “I tell you, it’s racism. That’s what it is.”

Regina slammed her own mug twice as hard because Amazons made it a policy to do everything twice as well as any male. “The Legion has nothing against orcs. Hell, it’s built on them.”

Gabel remained adamant. “Sure it is. Angry, hot-blooded, grumbling orc idiots. But exhibit a little intelligence, bathe regularly, avoid dangling participles, and suddenly you’re not orc enough.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Frank the ogre slammed his mug as well because it seemed the thing to do.

“Is it?” Gabel leaned forward and whispered so none of his fellow ores in the pub would overhear. “All my life I’ve had to deal with this. Do you have any idea how many promotions have passed by me? Meanwhile, every mumbling, malformed, drooling moron gets to climb the ladder.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re short,” said Regina.

“Goblin short,” agreed Frank.

Gabel glared ruefully at his mug and took another drink. “Still racism. Not my fault I was born a little short.”

“Goblin short,” reasserted Frank.

Gabel narrowed his eyes. He’d gotten used to this. Ores and goblins, despite their size differences, bore a passing resemblance. It was mostly in the shape of their skulls, their sloping foreheads, their wide mouths, and the ears that sat high on their heads. Scholars hypothesized that the two species shared a common ancestor. Both goblins and ores found the notion absurd. But Gabel, having wrestled with this handicap his whole life, had little tolerance for it.

“I’m not a goblin.”

“Are you sure?” asked Regina. “Maybe the midwives had a mix-up.”

“In the first place, orcs don’t have midwives. In the second, I’m not a damn goblin.”

Frank bent close and squinted. “It’s just that you look an awful lot like a goblin.”

“Orcs and goblins look alike. They’re related specimens.”

“Yeah, but every orc I’ve known was grayish blue. Whereas you’re more of a grayish green.”

“And your ears are very big.” Regina illustrated the size with her hands apart.

“Not to mention there’s not a hair on your body,” added Frank.

“I shave.”

“Well, that’s not very orcish either.”

Gabel jumped on the table. Even standing on it, his five-foot frame wasn’t especially impressive. Though he was in fine shape, his was a lithe muscularity. Orcs generally had great, dense bodies. And not one stood under six feet.

Gabel put his hand on his sword. “The next one who calls me a goblin gets run through.”

“Is ‘through’ a participle?” asked Regina. “Did he just dangle a participle?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Frank.

“‘Through’ is a preposition.” Huffing, Gabel hopped off the table. “Not that I’d expect anyone else in this pub to know.”

“It’s not racism,” said Regina. “It’s sexism. I should be in charge, but men are too threatened by a powerful woman.” She flexed her bulging bicep, then drew her knife and jammed it handle deep through the thick wooden table with one strike. “It doesn’t help any that I’m flawlessly beautiful. That only threatens them more.”

Frank and Gabel chuckled.

She sneered. “Do you disagree?”

“Oh, you’re beautiful,” said Gabel, “but I think it’s a little much to say you’re flawless.”

“Someone’s got a high opinion of herself,” Frank pretended to say to a passing soldier who hadn’t been privy to the conversation.

Regina’s cold, black eyes darkened. “What’s wrong with me?”

The orc and the ogre glanced at one another. “Nothing,” they said in unison.

“It’s just, well, you’re a bit… how do I put this?” asked Frank.

“Manly,” said Gabel.

Regina threw her mug at him, but he ducked out of the way.

“Do these look manly?” She arched her back to emphasize her ample bosom. “Or this?” She undid the knot atop her head, and a golden cascade of silken hair tumbled past her shoulders. “Or this?” She pulled back her skirt to show her long, perfectly proportioned leg. Some of the nearby soldiers leered.

She grabbed the closest orc by the neck and drew him close to her snarling lips. “Am I not a vision of feminine magnificence?”

He nodded and gulped.

Her sneer deepened. “Would you not give both your eyes for a single hour alone with me?”

He hesitated, and she tightened her grip.

“Maybe one eye,” the orc answered.

“Only one?”

He winced apologetically. “I prefer brunettes.”

Regina tossed him across the pub. She shouted to the room. “Who here thinks I’m the most beautiful woman they’ve ever seen?”

The pub fell silent. Finally a soldier dared raise his hand. She stalked over, thanked him, and knocked him out with a brutal uppercut.

Frank chortled. “Not manly at all.”

“I’m an Amazon warrior, not some barmaid to be ogled.”

“First you get upset that we don’t notice how beautiful you are,” said Gabel. “Then you get upset when we do.”

“Now that’s more like a woman.” Frank snorted. He helped himself to a leg of lamb being carried past the table, and as he was very large, even for an ogre, no one protested. “You’re half right, Gabel. There’s racism at work here.” He bit off half the leg, chewing with loud crunches. Bits of mutton and bone spewed from his mouth as he spoke. “If you think orcs have it bad, try being an ogre.”

Gabel eyed the lumps of meat floating atop his ale. With a shrug, he drank it down. It wasn’t bad, although he could have done without the ogre spit.

Frank ran his thick, black tongue across his thick, gray teeth. “Do you know how many ogres have command positions in the Legion? None.”

“Surely you don’t think you deserve the promotion?” Regina struggled to put her shimmering, flaxen hair back up.

“And why not? I’m the highest ranking ogre here. And this is Ogre Company.”

“Only ogres can command ogres? Is that what you’re saying?” asked Regina.

“That sounds a little racist,” said Gabel.

“It’s not about that.” Frank belched, and something sailed from his throat to land across the room and slither away into the darkness. “It’s about demonstration of advancement opportunities.”

“Let’s just agree we’re all getting screwed.” Gabel sighed.

They banged their mugs together.

“So who’s the new guy?” asked Frank.

“Never Dead Ned.”

“I thought he was just a story.”

“Apparently not.”

Frank grumbled. “How are we supposed to kill a guy who can’t die?”

Regina gave up on her hair, letting it fall back down. One scarred soldier couldn’t help but stare at her beautiful locks. She rose, walked over, and broke his nose, then sat back down. “He can die.”

“Are you certain?” asked Frank. “I mean, it’s right there in his name. First two words: Never Dead.”

“He’s a man.” She spat out the word. “All men are mortal. Hence Ned must be mortal.”

“Not to fault your syllogism,” said Gabel, “but I’ve looked over his file.”

“What’s a syllogism?” asked Regina. She was in a quarrelsome mood and not willing to overlook a chance to be offended.

“A syllogism is a deductive scheme of formal argument consisting of a major and minor premise and a conclusion.”

Frank squinted skeptically at Gabel. “You’re making that up.”

“No, I’m not,” said Gabel. “It’s basic philosophy. I read it in a book.”

“Reading,” said Frank. “Not very orcish.”

Gabel pretended not to hear that.

Regina’s hard eyes glinted. “No man, mortal or immortal, is a match for an Amazon. He’ll die. We’ll find a way.”

The officers shared a chuckle.

Gabel stood. “I better get going. New commander arrives in fifteen minutes. His trusted first officer should be there to greet him.”

They shared a chuckle over that too. After he’d left, the remaining officers ordered another round.

“Syllogism, indeed. I still say he’s a goblin,” remarked Regina.

Frank shrugged. “Some people can never be comfortable with themselves.”

“Poor fools.”

Then the Amazon knocked a troll flat on his ass for daring to glance at her breasts.

Putting harnesses on rocs and using them as transports was an experiment in Brute’s Legion with mixed results. Gabel would’ve used titan dragonflies. They were easier to tame, easier to ride, even a little faster. The Higher Ups, whoever the hell was in charge of such things, wanted the regal, reptilian birds with their vibrant red and gold plumage, their fearsome shrieks. And that was how a perfectly good idea had gone to hell.

Rocs just weren’t tamable. The most that could be done with them was to keep them fed and try not to irritate them. When they weren’t hungry or annoyed, they mostly behaved. Unless it was mating season. Or they heard a loud noise. Or something shiny drew their attention. Or they smelled a chicken. Or they thought they smelled a chicken. Or they just felt like stomping something under their tremendous feet. For such immense creatures, they were terribly jumpy.

Gabel glanced through the sky. The flight was ten minutes late. Might be a normal delay. Might mean the transport had gotten hungry and stopped for a snack. This wouldn’t be the first new officer to be devoured before he reached the fortress.

Goblins staffed the roc program and nearly every other project that required personnel equally fearless and expendable. Their bold obtuseness was fortunate. Otherwise, the way they bred, they’d have overrun the world long ago.

Gabel stopped a goblin passing by. This one wore a helmet with the crest of a pilot squadron. Gabel didn’t recognize the design. Either The Flying Brunches or Stubborn Chewables. This particular pilot had three scratches on his helmet, signifying he’d successfully flown a roc into the air and back again three times without perishing. That qualified him as a seasoned veteran.

“Yes, sir!” The pilot saluted sloppily, but Gabel ignored that.

“Any news on the commander?”

“No, sir!” The pilot shouted. “But I’m sure he’s fine, sir!”

Gabel looked to the pens. Four rocs paced about. Their long serpentine tails whipped up clouds of dust. Their merciless eyes glared. The biggest bird, about thirty-five feet high, nipped at another. The attacked roc shrieked and nipped back. Instantly all four monsters were busy shrieking and tearing at one another. Stains of dried blood and immense feathers from previous squabbles littered the pen.

Three goblins rushed into the pen with their long barbed sticks. “Calmer Downers” in roc-handler terminology. One handler was crushed beneath a bird’s clumsy step. A second was snatched up and swallowed. Several more handlers replaced them, and after about a minute of furious screaming and terrified yelping, the rocs relaxed. The two goblins that hadn’t been eaten or mashed in the process exited the pen with wide, satisfied smiles.

They’d never get Gabel near one of those damn things.

The pilot sensed his trepidation. “One day, roc flight will be the safest form of travel, sir!”

There wasn’t the slightest trace of doubt in his words. Gabel admired the eternal optimism of goblins, even if he hated being mistaken for one.

“I wouldn’t worry about the commander, sir! Ace is our best pilot, sir!”

Gabel stepped back. The goblin’s shouting was beginning to bother his ears. “How many flights has he had?”

“Seven, sir!”

Gabel was impressed. “He must be good.”

“Yes, sir! He really knows what he’s doing! Plus, rocs don’t really like the taste of him, sir! Swallowed him three times, sir! Spat him out every time, sir!”

“How lucky for him.” Gabel waved the goblin away. “You’re dismissed.”

The pilot saluted again. “Thank you, sir!”

By the time the ringing had gone out of Gabel’s ears, the roc finally appeared in the sky. Its flight was surprisingly smooth, its tremendous wings beating with power and grace. But the landing was the hardest part. Its grace in the air was countered by its clumsiness on the ground.

The pilot whipped the reins, spurring the roc into a sharp dive. Just when it looked certain the bird would crash into the earth, it pulled up and set down without a stumble. Handlers threw a rope up to the pilot, who tied it around the roc’s collar. He slid down the rope with a grin.

Ace was short, even for a goblin — a little over two feet. Nonetheless, he cut a dashing, carefree figure. Almost heroic. He raised his goggles, threw back his long scarf. One of his ears was missing, probably having been snipped off by a roc. Or maybe something else. Goblins lived dangerous lives.

“Sir.” He didn’t salute, only drew his knife and cut another notch into his helmet. The pipe clamped between his teeth stank of some foul herb Gabel couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, it reeked of rotten flesh and spoiled fruit. Little wonder rocs didn’t want to eat him.

A voice called from the bird’s back. “Excuse me? How do I get down?”

“Well, you could jump!” shouted Ace. “Or you could use the ladder! Your call.”

A rope ladder descended one side, and Ned started down. He was halfway to the ground when a scampering squirrel darting past startled the roc. The beast twisted, lost its balance, and tumbled over. Gabel and Ace were well out of squishing range, but Ned wasn’t so lucky. The crash of three tons of bird flesh cut short his fearful yelp. The roc took some time before wobbling to its feet.

Gabel approached the crushed commander. “Damn, what a mess.”

“He looked like that before,” said Ace, “except his neck didn’t bend that way.”

“Sir?” Gabel prodded Ned. “Sir?”

“Pretty sure he’s dead.” Ace kicked the corpse.

“But this is Never Dead Ned.”

“Guess they’ll have to change his name to Distinctly Dead Ned.” Ace booted the body a second time, hopped on its chest a few times, and waggled the broken neck. “Yep, that’s dead a’right.”

Gabel frowned.

Then he smiled. It was nice when problems solved themselves.