In the Company of Ogres

by Martinez A. Lee

  The siren turned to the brawl, closed her eyes, and focused her enchanted voice. Her lips parted to send a soft hum across the courtyard. Too light to be heard, the hum vibrated in the air, and the soldiers of Ogre Company proceeded to beat the hell out of each other with subtly less enthusiasm.

  She hadn’t been as confident as she pretended. She’d enthralled dozens before, but never a crowd so large. There was enough hostility and frustration present to devour any weaker enchantment cast into the audience. A single missed high note or slip in concentration could blow the whole thing. She wasn’t sure if she was up to it, but there was only one way to find out.

  She sang. Her voice danced a delicate, crystalline melody. She wove her spell for a full minute without much effect and was ready to give up when the wind, enticed by her supernatural aria, lifted her off the ground in its loving embrace. The sun caressed her tenderly with its warm, gentle rays, while all the nearby flowers uprooted themselves and ran closer to hear her better. Spurred onward, Miriam sang louder. One by one, soldiers ceased their brawling. They lowered their fists, and wide, goofy grins spread on their faces. The same type of grin that Owens wore.

  The goblins, being immune, got the chance to throw in a few cheap shots on their helpless opponents. But they quickly lost interest. It wasn’t very much fun sinking teeth into the ankles of enemies who just stood there grinning. Even kicks in the crotch, dropping soldiers to their knees without removing their smiles, lost much of their satisfaction.

  Ned felt the magic too, but Miriam had deliberately avoided enchanting him. She couldn’t shield him from the entire spell, but he remained relatively uncharmed. He just tilted his head slightly and smiled softly, feeling quite pleasant. At the moment Miriam looked like a petite, raven-haired beauty to him—a woman he’d never met in person, who might not even exist except for a fountain statue he’d seen once. “How lovely.”

  Regina scowled. “I’ve heard better.”

  Ending the song would be the trickiest bit. To just stop singing would unleash the hostility all the stronger. Miriam had to dispel that aggression. She took her time disassembling it, though the strain of the enchanted song wore on her voice. It took another two minutes. Slowly, her melody trailed away, growing softer and softer. The wind set her down. The sun paid her no special attention. And the flowers grew disinterested enough to scamper back to their cracks in the cobblestones. She half expected the brawl to start up again when her voice finally gave out with a harsh crack. Instead, the soldiers stood in a residual daze.

  Ned surveyed his troops. He was feeling grand, and so were they from the looks on their faces. He dismissed them while the happy feelings remained. The soldiers dispersed in a mild, yet harmless, stupor.

  Miriam, no longer singing, resembled herself again, but was no less beautiful.

  “Excellent work, officer.”

  The strain of the magic song had reduced her voice to a whisper. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Please, call me Ned,” he said. “Could I buy you a drink?”

  “I would be honored, Ned.”

  “The honor is all mine.”

  They headed toward the pub, leaving Regina, Gabel, and Frank behind. Miriam glanced over her shoulder to bat her lashes at the Amazon. The lashes were far too dark and long to belong on that scaly face, mused Regina.

  “Isn’t she swell?” said Frank of the siren.

  “Exquisite,” agreed Gabel dreamily.

  “You idiots,” said Regina, “you’ve been entranced.”

  “We most certainly have,” said Frank.

  “Entranced by such intoxicating grace and charm,” said Gabel.

  They both sighed wistfully.

  Two passing goblins disagreed. “Aw, she’s not so great,” said the first.

  It was nice someone still had their senses, thought Regina.

  “Oh, yeah,” agreed the second, “take away the magic voice and what do you got? Nothing but a sexually adventurous, exotic seductress.”

  “With a great ass,” said the first.

  “And limber too,” said the second as they passed out of earshot.

  Regina growled, harsh and guttural, like an angry mountain cat. She’d lost this battle, but she was determined not to lose the war. Neither her burgeoning sexual desire nor competitive Amazon training allowed for that possibility.

  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 int
o 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.

  Sixteen

  REGINA STOOD IN one dark corner, studying Miriam at the opposite end of the pub. The siren stood brazenly beside Ned. Occasionally he’d say something Regina couldn’t hear over the crowd, and Miriam would laugh as if he’d just pronounced the most marvelously entertaining utterance. She’d put a hand on his shoulder and sometimes “accidentally” brush her breasts against his arm. It was disgusting. And Ned seemed to be falling for it. He was an idiot and a fool. Like all men. Unworthy of Regina’s affections.

  The more she despised him, the less he seemed to notice her and the more she wanted him. And she would have him. She knew it well enough. She just had to get rid of the damned siren.

  Regina’s eyes strayed to the table. For the past ten minutes, unaware, she’d been gouging her dagger into the wood. Ugly gashes tore deep into the planks, almost coming out the bottom.

  Ulga the chubby elf conjurer and Sally the salamander passed near the table. Regina grabbed the elf by the arm.

  “Ma’am?” asked Ulga.

  “You must hate men,” said Regina.

  Ulga’s pink eyes narrowed. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am?”

  “Well, look at you.”

  Ulga did indeed look herself over. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You’re fat.”

  “I do got a few extra
pounds on me, ma’am.”

  “So men must treat you very poorly.”

  “Some,” admitted Ulga. “But others do enjoy the extra portions.” She made a show of adjusting her bountiful chest.

  “You don’t hate men?” asked Regina.

  Ulga shook her head. Regina released her and took up her table carving again.

  “Something troubling you, ma’am?” asked Ulga.

  Regina missed the question, obsessed with watching Miriam blatantly rubbing Ned’s shoulders.

  “I wouldn’t let it trouble you none, ma’am.” Ulga sat at the table. “Ain’t met a man worth dying over yet.”

  Regina quite agreed. No man was worth dying over. But she was beginning to think some just might be worth killing over.

  Sally slipped into the chair next to Ulga. The reptile put her elbows on the table, and it smoldered. “I can’t say I understand these human mating rituals. Far too much conflict. We salamanders resolved that problem long ago.”

  “How so?” asked Ulga.

  “It all goes by length. The longest female in the village gets the first pick of any male she wishes. Then the second longest. Then the third. And so on and so on until everyone is paired off. No arguments that way.”

  “But what if the male doesn’t like who picked him?” asked Ulga.

  “No one asks him. Salamander males are drones. They have no drives other than to eat, defecate, and procreate. They can’t even speak properly or bathe themselves. Like stupid children. Or clever dogs.”

  “Sounds like every male I’ve ever met,” muttered Regina.

  “They must be very dull company,” remarked Ulga.

  “Yes, but it’s for the best,” said Sally. “After all, if they were smarter, it would only make it more disconcerting to eat them.”