Og-Grim-Dog
The Three-Headed Ogre
Jamie Edmundson
Og-Grim-Dog: The Three-Headed Ogre
Book 1 of Me Three
Copyright © 2020 by Jamie Edmundson.
All rights reserved.
First Edition: 2020
Author website jamieedmundson.com
Cover Artwork: Andrey Vasilchenko
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
For Maria
Contents
Newsletter/Maps
AN OGRE OF THREE HEADS
DARKSPIKE DUNGEON
A DRINK AT THE BRUISED BOLLOCKS
THE BUREAU OF DUNGEONEERING
AN OGRE IN COURT
FORM ADC6
DEEPWOOD DUNGEON: LEVEL ONE
DEEPWOOD DUNGEON: LEVEL TWO
DEEPWOOD DUNGEON: LEVEL THREE
WIGHT’S HOLLOW
DISCOUNT DUNGEON SUPPLIES
THE CRUSHED GRAPES IN URLAY
INTERMISSION
THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
THE BARBARIAN
THE WIZARD AND THE DWARF
THE ELF
THE CLERIC
GRIM SOLVES THE CASE
THE REEVE OF MER KHAZER
THE REEVE OF DORWICH CITY
BACK HOME
THE END OF THE MIDDLE
END CREDITS
Jamie’s Series Information
Newsletter/Maps
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MAPS
CONSULT THE MAPS OF OG-GRIM-DOG’S WORLD HERE
AN OGRE OF THREE HEADS
It was night-time at the Flayed Testicles. Drinking time.
Conversation swirled around the inn, laughter erupting from one corner, dark and secret mutterings in another. Men and women talking and drinking, with nowhere better to be and nothing better to do. You could say it was an inn like any other in the land of Magidu.
Except for the landlord.
Tea towel permanently draped over one shoulder, he was the oil that kept the wheels turning, serving food and drink with cheery amiability, a dirty joke for the women and a wink for the men. Respectful yet familiar; controlled yet approachable. And no-one ever tried to make trouble in his inn. For he was an ogre, and he was an ogre of three heads.
It could have been awkward addressing an ogre of three heads. Which pair of eyes to look at? Use one name or all three? But this ogre insisted on being called Landlord, and Landlord only. And if you called out this name, then invariably you found three pairs of eyes all looking your way, each head giving you their undivided attention.
And so it was that this night, the regulars called out this name, a name that was not really a name at all. No longer demanding to be served his ale, though that would continue to flow all night, never fear. They demanded something they had found to be even more valuable, and something never watered down, either. They called out for a story. For, in the quiet and peaceable backwater that was Magidu, they loved a bloodcurdling story, and no-one told a story quite as peculiar, or marvellous, or chilling, as the Landlord. The Landlord’s stories were outlandish, outrageous, preposterous, completely unbelievable. Yet, when he told them, the Landlord’s customers all agreed it sounded like he had been there himself. This, they would tell each other, is the mark of a truly great storyteller. Not to mention, with three heads, he was very good at doing all the voices.
The conversations died down, the anticipation heightened. The Landlord took his time wiping down the bar, letting the tension build as all great performers know to do.
But this night would be different from all the other nights.
It wasn’t because of the Landlord or his regulars. It was because of a newcomer.
Sitting at the table at the front of the inn was a small, bespectacled man. His clothing was old-fashioned and worn-looking. It had the effect of making him look older than he really was.
As the Landlord wiped at his bar, getting ready to begin, he couldn’t help but notice that large segments of his audience were distracted. People were gesturing at the man on the front table, a quill in one hand hovering over a piece of parchment, apparently ready to record whatever words might be emitted from the Landlord’s mouths.
The genial mask slipped somewhat.
‘What are you doing?’ asked one of the heads.
‘I intend to record what you say,’ answered the man matter-of-factly.
‘Why would you do that?’ asked a second head.
‘Because I know who you are. You are Og-Grim-Dog.’
Gasps erupted around the inn. A name—they had a name. No longer the Landlord, this ogre was Og-Grim-Dog, one name for each head, together forming a whole.
‘You must have me mistaken,’ said the second head.
‘Mistaken?’ asked the man, the pitch of his voice rising at the end of the word. ‘How many three-headed ogres are there?’ he said, a little smugly.
‘You’d be surprised,’ suggested the third head.
‘Come on,’ said the man in a chiding voice, wafting his quill at the ogre. ‘You are Og-Grim-Dog, infamous across Gal’azu.’
The regulars at the Testicles muttered at this. Had their Landlord really come here from Gal’azu—the dangerous, edgier province to the east? Could it be? Could it be that his stories, so fanciful and fantastical, were episodes from his previous life?
‘Everyone in my homeland knows at least one story about your exploits,’ continued the newcomer. ‘But I have travelled here to find out the truth. To sift the facts from the fabrications, to peel back the layers of myth-making, the exaggeration and the misrepresentation; to record for posterity, what really happened. Once I have done my work, broken in and bridled the fable with my tools—this quill, this ink, and this parchment—I will have copies made and distributed, so that all may know the truth of it.’
‘You dare to make such a claim?’ demanded the Landlord’s first head, in a deep growl of a voice that none here had ever heard before. The ogre before them seemed to grow, and the Testicles shrank. As if awakening from a stupor, or a spell, they could see the hard, grey skin; the giant teeth; the thick black hairs sprouting from knobbly warts. And it was only then that the regulars of the Flayed Testicles recognised their terrible folly, of frequenting an inn owned by a three-headed ogre.
‘You, with your puny tools, a feather and a small bottle of ink, will break and shackle our legend? We are Og-Grim-Dog! We have been loved and reviled! We have been the Hero of the Hour, the Darkest Villain, and everything in between! We have saved this world and travelled to worlds beyond it! We have deployed weapons of death beyond your imagination! They have called us The Destroyer! The Unclassifiable! We graduated top of our class in Rhetoric! We once shagged a—’
The second head coughed. ‘Remember, we agreed not to mention that,’ it said under its breath.
‘Oh yes, sorry,’ replied head one. It turned back to the man, a mean and fiery look in its eyes. It opened its mouth, revealing its teeth, each the size of a human’s hand. It made its hand into a fist, the size of a human’s head. The newcomer crumpled under the glare and the hostility and the threa
t of imminent, bloody violence. ‘You think you can distil the life of Og-Grim-Dog into some words on a page?’
The inn became silent. It was the silence of a question left hanging in the air.
‘Maybe,’ squeaked the man.
The silence transmuted, to the sound of the Flayed Testicles holding its collective breath. They hadn’t come out tonight to watch a man be torn apart and eaten in three separate, ogre-sized mouths. Having said that, it would be something to tell the grandchildren…
‘Very well,’ said the ogre, in a surprisingly calm voice. ‘You accept the challenge. But know this. Failure on your part will result in not only your death, but the death of every man, woman and under-age drinker in this inn.’
A third silence. The silence when everyone thinks to themselves, I could have stayed at home tonight.
‘Agreed,’ said the stranger, apparently entirely comfortable about risking the lives of all present.
The regulars of the Testicles stared at the man with antipathy, but he seemed oblivious. He dipped his quill into his ink pot and held it at the ready. ‘Where shall we start?’ he asked.
‘Let’s start in the middle,’ suggested the ogre’s third head.
‘Why the hell would we start there?’ demanded the first head angrily.
‘A non-linear narrative is more flamboyant,’ explained the third head.
‘More pretentious,’ countered the first.
‘It’s also a better stylistic choice for this project,’ continued the third head, warming to the subject, ‘which is based on our recall of our collective memories.’
The newcomer scrunched his face up at this and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. That approach is going to make it a lot harder for me.’
The Flayed Testicles looked anxiously from the man’s troubled expression to the ogre’s first head. Anything that made the task harder for the Recorder made their deaths more likely.
The ogre smiled—a sly, self-satisfied kind of smile.
‘Then the middle it is.’
DARKSPIKE DUNGEON
Are you Og-Grim-Dog, the three-headed ogre?’ asked the goblin.
‘D’ya see any other three-headed ogres round here?’ asked Dog, rather impolitely.
Grim sighed. There was no need to be rude, and sarcasm was wasted on goblins. It was now looking around the cavern for other three-headed ogres. Dog barked with laughter at the creature’s confusion.
But there was no-one else in the cavern, and barely any furniture. A wooden chest stood against one wall, a weapons rack on another. In one corner was the ogre’s pile of bones.
‘Yes, that’s us,’ said Grim. ‘Gary, isn’t it?’
The goblin grinned, pleased that Grim knew his name.
‘I bring a message from—’
‘Wait. Wait a moment,’ interrupted Dog. ‘Your name is Gary? Why, by the twenty-three circles of fiery Gehenna, is your name Gary?’
Grim felt Og wake from his snooze next to him.
‘Stop persecuting Gary!’ Og demanded drowsily.
‘Persecuting him? I’m not persecuting him, I’m just asking why he has changed his name. He had a perfectly good name. What was your name, son?’ he asked the goblin.
‘Grarviaksrurm,’ the goblin answered promptly.
‘Exactly! Perfectly good name,’ said Dog, though Grim detected a hint of doubt in his voice now. ‘A perfectly good goblin name. Gary just sounds ridiculous.’
‘He’s changed his name,’ said Og, now fully awake and getting louder, ‘because goblins are discriminated against! The system has forced him to take a human name. Don’t blame the victim!’
‘System? Victim? What the—’
‘Yes, victim! You’re just perpetuating—’
‘SILENCE!’ shouted Grim.
This always happened when Og and Dog had an argument. They shouted at each other, but since Grim was the middle head, they actually both shouted at him. He was sure he was going deaf as a result.
‘Gary says he has a message for us, so I think we should find out what it is.’
‘The orcs want to see you. Immediately.’
‘The orcs?’ Dog asked, making a face. ‘If the orcs want to see us, why don’t they come ask us themselves?’
‘Exactly!’ said Og, as if he had just won their argument.
‘Please,’ said Grim, trying to forestall further shouting. ‘Why don’t we just go and see what’s up?’
Og-Grim-Dog followed Gary out of their cavern and up the gently rising stone path that linked their home to the rest of Darkspike Dungeon.
Most of this part of the dungeon had been formed naturally: the stone walls were rough and untreated, the ceilings damp with water, so that there was a constant dripping noise, whether day or night. It was a lovely part of the world, and Og-Grim-Dog had made sure that no-one else was tempted to share it with them. Indeed, if you ignored the noise from the kobolds upstairs, it was a very peaceful place to live.
Up they went, to the next level of the dungeon. Here, things were more hectic. It was a densely populated area, full of orcs, goblins and trolls, or ‘green-skins’ as Dog called them. Grim didn’t use the term, since Og insisted it was racist. They did all have green skin, though.
Gary led them through the dimly lit corridors, past rooms full of goblin warriors, who peered out at them suspiciously. They negotiated the dungeon traps that had been set here and there to catch out unwary trespassers. The smell of blood came on the air: freshly-slaughtered meat. Grim’s mouth watered and the ogre’s stomachs rumbled.
They came upon a scene of violence and destruction. Doors had been smashed off hinges, splinters of wood everywhere. The clean-up operation had begun, but many orc bodies still lay sprawled where they had fallen. Elsewhere, ribbons of blood and guts, in shades of red and brown, glistened on the ground where bodies had been dragged away.
Amidst the carnage, hands on hips, stood Krim, the Orc Queen. Seeing Og-Grim-Dog, she waved them over.
‘Thanks, goblin,’ she said to Gary, giving him a little trinket before waving him away.
She cleared her throat noisily, and for some time, until an orc standard-bearer, flustered looking, rushed over to her side.
‘Way to make me look stupid,’ she said sourly. ‘Get on with it, then.’
‘Her Exalted Royal Majesty, Sovereign and Despot of the Black Orcs of Darkspike Dungeon, Overlord of the Orc Nation!’ he declared in a powerful voice.
‘Really, Krim?’ asked Dog. ‘What’s with all this pompous flimflam?’
‘It may be flimflam,’ she conceded. ‘But it is high time we learned a thing or two from the humans. They’ve been giving themselves ludicrous titles for centuries. And now their people just believe it all. And obey. Why shouldn’t I do the same?’
‘Why does everyone want to behave like the humans?’ Dog demanded.
‘Because they’re winning,’ said Krim. ‘Look around you. Another attack—my soldiers slain, any treasures we had left taken. We orcs are done. There’s not enough of us left to even give them a fight next time it happens. And that means they’ll come after the rest of you. It’s orcs who are dying right now, but don’t think you’ll be spared.’
‘Well, leaving your treasure lying around doesn’t help for starters,’ said Dog. ‘You’re inviting trespassers down here.’
‘You’ve done it again!’ Og shouted, into Grim’s ear. ‘Blaming the victims. That’s twice in a matter of minutes!’
‘But that’s just it,’ said Krim, mercifully cutting off another argument. ‘There was nothing left to take. I haven’t had enough fit and healthy warriors to go out raiding for months. The humans must have known that. They took all we had left the last time they attacked. They didn’t come down here to win treasure. They came to kill us.’
‘Hmm,’ said Grim. ‘Trespassing down here to find treasure we stole from them is one thing. But coming with the sole purpose of murder is quite another. But what should we do about it? More traps and stronger defences
aren’t doing the trick.’
‘Someone needs to go up there,’ said Krim. ‘Find out what is going on, who’s behind it, and why. I’d try myself, but I’m up to my neck in it here. Besides, the humans kill orcs on sight now. Quite frankly, it needs to be you. You’re the only other person in this dungeon with the brains to do it.’
Ogres are stubborn, bull-headed creatures. Abduct their mother, threaten her with all kinds of torture and they’ll offer to do it themselves, just so no-one thinks they’re a pushover.
But flattery. That works every time.
A DRINK AT THE BRUISED BOLLOCKS
Og-Grim-Dog left Darkspike Dungeon and went travelling in the Great Outside. There were no comforting grey stone walls and ceilings here, closing in on them, keeping the air just the right side of stale. Instead there was the wide, blue sky that stretched out in every direction. It stretched upward, as far as the eye can see, and then farther still. Grim tried not to think about it.
There was a certain system Og-Grim-Dog had developed when it came to travelling in the Great Outside. To understand it, we must briefly mention limbs. Og-Grim-Dog had two arms and two legs. The left and right heads, Og and Dog, had use of one arm each. Grim had use of the legs. It was a roughly fair division, even though it had its problems from time to time.
At Og-Grim-Dog’s belt, wrapped around a huge waist, hung two weapons. Close to Og’s arm was a pike. It was actually a human pike that Og had come by and rather liked. But whereas humans were required to hold the pole-arm two-handed, Og had the strength to wield it by himself. On the opposite side of the waist was a mace, this time ogre-sized, that was Dog’s weapon of choice.
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