Alex Lee Martinez - In the Company of Ogres

Neither Lewis nor Martin seemed offended. Ned guessed their mother had taught them better than to question their superiors as well. The twins both tried speaking once more, but neither dared talk before the other.

“You.” Ned pointed to Lewis. “What is it?”

Lewis saluted crisply again. “I just wanted to say, sir, that it is an honor to serve under the famous Never Dead Ned.”

Ned nodded to Martin. “Now you.”

“As you wish, sir, but I see no need to reiterate what my dear brother has declared with such eloquence. Though I myself would’ve preferred the word ‘privilege’ over ‘honor.’”

Lewis smacked his forehead. “Of course, how presumptuous of me. As always, dear brother, you have demonstrated your superior understanding of language.”

“Don’t belittle your own grasp,” replied Martin.

“You’re too kind, but it is obvious that I have overstepped myself with my poor word choice.”

“Now, now, I’ll hear none of that.”

Ned understood now why the twins had never gotten around to killing each other. They were too damn busy apologizing all the time. He left them to their atonements and moved to the next in line. The goblin was bright, leafy green, not the usual gray-green. And he had a shaggy red beard. Goblins didn’t grow hair normally.

“This is Seamus,” said Gabel. “Faerie blood in his family, isn’t that right, Seamus?”

“Yes, sir. My great-great-great-great-grandmother had a fling with a leprechaun. Quite scandalous. We don’t like talking about it.”

“Seamus is a shapeshifter,” said Gabel. “Give the commander a demonstration.”

The goblin disappeared into a blue cloud. When the cloud faded, a large, white cockatoo stood in his place. A green fog swallowed the bird, and Seamus became a fat, brown rat. A burst of yellow smoke later, he transformed into a boot. Then a skillet. Then a trumpet. Then an apple. And finally a bucket.

Ned stood before the bucket a few seconds, but Seamus didn’t change into anything else.

“I think he’s stuck, sir. Happens sometimes. Nothing to worry about.” Gabel nodded to the bucket. “Carry on, Seamus.”

Fourth in line stood a long, white reptile. She was serpentine in form, fifteen feet long stretched out, but her body was coiled to a more reasonable six-foot height. Her limbs were short, four pairs in all. She stood on two pairs while her other two were folded. She radiated warmth, and the air shimmered around her. Her face was more like a cat than a reptile, and her two blue eyes sparkled in the dusky light. Little puffs of fire rose from her nostrils with each breath.

Ned said, “I thought all the salamanders were destroyed after the Terrible Scorching.”

“No, sir.” Flames erupted from her mouth as she spoke. Ned stepped back to avoid having his eyebrows charred. “Not all.”

“What’s your name, private?” It wasn’t that he cared, but he was starting to feel like a commander, despite himself. And a commander should know his soldiers.

“You couldn’t pronounce it with your thick, lumpy tongue, sir. They just call me Sally.” Salamanders changed colors with their moods. Ned knew the basic color codes. Red for anger. Purple for vanity. Green for envy. She turned a golden orange, and he had no idea what that meant. He made a mental note to check her file later to see if it listed the more obscure shades.

“Good to have you on board, private,” said Ned with enthusiasm that surprised him. He nearly slapped her on the shoulder, but caught himself in time to avoid a nasty burn.

She glowed a light purple. “Thank you, sir.”

Next to last in line waited a short, treelike creature with a full head of yellowing leaves. The tree’s bark was scarred. Some of the carvings looked like old wounds, but most appeared intentional or decorative. Only one caught Ned’s eye. It read, “Don’t pick the apples.” A few arrow shafts were buried in the tree’s trunk. He was amusing himself by plucking the petals from a fresh, young rose. Most striking to Ned was the burning cigarette pursed between the tree’s lips.

“Private Elmer, sir,” said Gabel.

Ned glanced the private up and down. It took him a moment to spot the tree’s eyes, two dark spots that might be mistaken for knots.

“I didn’t know we had En—”

“Treefolk, sir,” interrupted Elmer.

“Treefolk. But I thought you called yourselves En—”

“No, sir. We aren’t allowed to say that anymore.”

“Why not?” asked Ned.

“We just aren’t. A wizard put a spell on the word, so we don’t say it anymore.”

“A spell?” said Ned. “But it’s just a word. Why would anyone want to put a spell on a word? What happens if you say it?”

Elmer drew a puff on his cigarette. “You don’t want to know. Nothing too troublesome, but it’s just easier to avoid it.”

“But treefolk ?”

“Well, we’re trees and we’re folk. Isn’t too imaginative, but it gets the job done.”

Ned shrugged. “I’m surprised there’s any treefolk in the Legion. Didn’t think they’d take up the soldiering profession.”

“Why is that, sir? Because I look like a bush, I gotta be all lovey-dovey, kissy-wissy. Is that what you’re saying, sir?”

“No, it’s just. .”

“I was told the Legion didn’t believe in racial profiling, sir. I was told I would be judged by my ability to slaughter my enemies, not the texture of my bark.”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“Then what did you mean, sir?” Elmer plucked another petal from the rose. “What, pray tell, could you have possibly meant by that ill-informed, insulting remark?”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Ned.

“Oh, I suppose that makes it all right then. You didn’t intend to verbalize your ignorance. As long as the slur was unintentional, I guess we needn’t worry about it. I guess I won’t need to file a grievance with my union then.” Snarling, Elmer dropped the flower to the ground and stomped on it with his roots.

He turned to Sally. “Disgusting mammal stereotyping.” His leaves brushed the salamander’s scales, and he plucked the smoldering bits of foliage before the flames could spread.

Ned moved on before he could say anything else he might regret. “I didn’t know there was a treefolk union,” he whispered to Gabel.

“Yes, sir. Only four of them in the whole Legion, but they’ve strong connections to the Troglodyte Brotherhood and United Siege Engine Operators. Best not to offend them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Next was an elf. White stubble covered her shaved head. Her eyes were pink, her skin smooth and chalky. Although Ned had never found elves especially attractive, she might’ve been beautiful if she weren’t quite so chubby. It didn’t help that she was picking her nose.

“This is Supply Sergeant Ulga, sir,” said Gabel.

She wiped her finger on her sleeve and nodded to Ned. “How’s it going?”

“Could be better,” he answered honestly.

“Ulga is part of the conjurer division, sir,” said Gabel.

“Any good, sergeant?”

“I get by, sir. If I do say so myself.” She reached into the air with a flourish and produced a plate of biscuits, which she presented with a smile. “Help yourself, sir.”

Ned took a bite and instantly regretted it. It wasn’t that the biscuit tasted bad. It actually had no taste at all. But it was so dry that it sucked all the moisture from his mouth. He swallowed. The morsel scraped its way down his throat and landed hard in his stomach.

Ulga clasped her hands before her, slowly spreading them to reveal a tin cup. She pointed her finger, the one that’d been up her nostrils only moments ago. Wine dripped from her fingertip to fill the cup, which she then offered to Ned. “I call it Ulga’s Special Vintage. Have a taste, sir.”