Alex Lee Martinez - In the Company of Ogres

“Some people knit. Others play cards. I raise the dead,” she replied. “A girl’s got to have a hobby. Otherwise I’d sit around my cave all day talking to zombies. Have you ever tried having a conversation with a zombie? They’re very dull. And it doesn’t matter how many times you tell them you don’t mind the smell, they just keep apologizing. Over and over again. They’re so bloody self-conscious.”

“Sorry.” He wasn’t sure why he apologized. “But I was hoping you could just stop.”

“Give them the silent treatment, you mean?” She scratched her nose with a long fuchsia fingernail. “Hardly seems fair to discriminate against them just because they’re dead.”

“No. I meant I was hoping you could stop bringing me back to life.”

“That’s a fine thank-you,” she said to her raven. “Most men would consider themselves fortunate to have cheated death as many times as this one.”

“It’s just…” He struggled to find the right words. “Look. It’s not natural for a man to keep dying.”

She leaned on her staff. “What are you saying? You’d rather be dead? Is the grave so appealing?”

“It’s not that. But a man shouldn’t have to die more than once.”

She shook her head very slowly. “That’s your problem, Ned. You keep mentioning the dying. As if that’s the most important part. Has it occurred to you that perhaps you’d do better to think more upon the time you spend among the living and less upon those brief moments in the company of the dead?”

“Certainly not,” taunted the raven. “Ned isn’t a very bright boy.”

Ned reached for the dagger on his belt. It was gone. Over the years, he’d stabbed the woman with a variety of blades in a variety of points, but so far, she’d never seemed to care. He hadn’t tried the raven yet. He didn’t imagine it would work.

Even if he killed the damned bird, she’d probably just resurrect it.

“All things die, Ned,” said the Red Woman. “Everything must molder in the ground sooner or later. You are no exception… probably. But while we live, whether by nature or magic, we’d do well to appreciate the experience.”

“I don’t know why you bother,” squawked the raven. “Clearly he’s an idiot.”

“Perhaps.” She stepped into the night. Despite her bright rubecundity, the blackness absorbed her. “See you around, Ned.”

She was gone. He couldn’t say whether she walked away or vanished into nothing. For a moment, he considered her advice, but before he could give it much thought, a faint odor of strawberries and cream reminded him how hungry he was. Returning from the dead always gave him an appetite.

Copper Citadel was a dim beacon in the gray night, and he headed for it. It was an irksome journey. He couldn’t see well and kept tripping over the uneven, rocky ground. He’d had a lightstone in his pouch when he died, but it was gone along with his knife and money. He’d been robbed. Dead men had no use for gold. But now he wasn’t dead, and he was broke and blind, stumbling through the dark. He half expected to fumble his way into a booby trap and perish again. He was even more annoyed by the time he reached the citadel, and his teeth were positively grinding.

The front gates were open, and the ogre sentries were asleep at their post. The light wasn’t much better inside the citadel walls. The only illumination at all came from a few sizable lightstones that had yet to be stolen from their fixtures. Soldiers slept on the ground. Others milled about in drunken gangs. None noticed or cared about one stranger walking through their fort. Ned had heard Ogre Company was undisciplined, but this was an absurdity of a fortress. He was glad he didn’t have to worry about dealing with security.

He found the pub without any trouble. He just followed the sounds of carousing. The harsh blare of the bonehorn, a vile orcish instrument capable of producing only three notes, assaulted his ears. The player kept tooting those notes in the same sequence. Ned recognized the tune: “Skullcrusher Boogie.” Not his favorite orcish composition, but it beckoned him.

The pub was dark, musty, and crowded. Mostly ogres, as Ned expected. He kept his eye to himself and strode purposefully to the bar.

He caught the barkeep’s attention. “Doom stout.”

The barkeep, a short ogre easily a head taller than Ned, pursed his lips. “You sure you want that?”

Ned nodded, and the barkeep went to fetch a mug.

“Excuse me, but are you Never Dead Ned?” asked a goblin on the next stool.

“No.”

Ace leaned forward. “Are you sure? You look like him.”

“All humans look alike.”

Ace frowned. “Yeah, but this guy was distinctive, even for a human. He was full of scars. Like you. And he had only one eye. Like you. And his left arm, it looked a little gangrenous. Like yours.” He squinted. “Yeah, you’re him a’right.”

Ned admitted defeat. “Yeah. I’m him.”

“Thought so. I flew you in. Remember that?”

“How could I forget?”

The barkeep set a mug of thick, black liquid before Ned. “I’d advise you not to drink this, little guy. Likely to put you right in your grave.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Ned.

He gulped some of the doom stout. He had to chew to get it down, and swallowing was a feat of will. His gut burned. His tongue sizzled. His throat constricted so tightly that it cut off his oxygen for about a minute. His eye watered. After all that, a cool pleasantness filled his head. In an hour it’d be replaced by a crushing headache and a bloody nose, but an hour was a long way away.

“Never knew a human that could stomach doom stout.” The barkeep smiled. “That one is on the house.”

It was a good thing, because Ned didn’t have any money. But he was commander here, and he’d just risen from the dead. That should’ve been worth a free drink at the very least.

Ace lit his pipe. A fly caught in the toxic yellow cloud retched audibly and fell to the floor dead. “Guess they call you Never Dead Ned for a reason, eh, sir?”

“Guess so.” Ned bit off another gulp of ale.

“Hey, Ward, Ralph!” shouted Ace. “Look who’s back! Guess you didn’t bury him deep enough!”

Ned swiveled and scanned the pub. His gaze fell across the only two ogres who couldn’t look him in the eye. Both held a mug in one hand, a shovel in the other. Ned rose and stomped across the room on wobbly legs. Ace, grinning, followed. The pub fell quiet.

“Did you bury me?”

Ward nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re not supposed to bury me.” The muscles of Ned’s bad arm tightened. His hand balled into a fist.

The gravediggers gulped. Even sitting, they were taller than Ned, and there wasn’t a human alive who could take an ogre in a bare-knuckle brawl. But any man who could return from the grave and drink doom stout was worthy of some respect. Since ogres weren’t used to either respecting or fearing humans, they weren’t sure precisely how to feel. They ultimately decided on awkward unease.

The doom stout bolstered Ned’s courage, lessened his reason. He had no fear of death, merely a general dislike for it. He was capable of anything right then, and even he wasn’t sure what he might do.

“My money.”

Ralph dropped Ned’s pouch on the table. “We didn’t think you’d be needing it anymore, sir.”

Ned belched loudly enough to nearly knock himself off his rubbery legs. “My knife. My sword.”

The knife was given over.

“Someone got to the sword before us,” said Ward.

Ned hunched over the table to keep his balance.

“We were just following orders,” said Ralph. “Sir.” He grunted that last word with obvious disgust.