Alex Lee Martinez - In the Company of Ogres

He hated fish. Even drunk on doom stout, he couldn’t imagine willingly putting it to his mouth. He ran his tongue across his lips. It was fish all right. Salty, not horribly fishy tasting, but indisputably fish.

He smacked audibly and moved the pillow from atop his head. Furious light flooded in, and he put the pillow back with a groan.

“Good morning, sir,” Miriam purred, “or should I say, good afternoon?” Her silken voice stirred those animal lusts, but his hangover and the peril of daylight kept him from responding.

He was too achy to smile, but he remembered now. A vague recollection of a night spent with her in his arms. It’d been magic. At least, he thought it’d been magic. The stout blurred the details. Still, he’d gotten laid. That counted for something. Maybe Ogre Company wouldn’t be so bad at all.

Something scaly slipped between the covers to touch his shoulder. He pulled away.

“I have to get going, sir,” said Miriam. “Kiss before I’m off?”

Eye closed, he lifted the pillow and puckered. Soft, cool lips met his. They tasted like fish. She tasted like fish. Reflexes kicked in, and he tumbled out of bed. For a minute, he struggled against the covers entangling him and the burning heat of daylight. When his vision cleared, he glimpsed a creature, a woman covered in golden scales, standing over him. She spoke with Miriam’s voice.

“I guess this means the honeymoon is over, sir.”

Ned covered his eye. “How drunk was I?”

“Very drunk, sir. But that really doesn’t have much to do with it. I tend to appear to all men as the woman of their innermost desire. Hazard of being a siren.”

He recalled how she’d looked last night. Pretty, yes, but nothing supernaturally appealing.

“Think about it,” she said. “Is there anyone you’ve ever desired who you couldn’t have?”

He didn’t feel like running through the list right now. It didn’t matter. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d left a tavern with a beautiful girl and woke up to a woman with webbed toes. He swore this time it’d be the last. Although he’d sworn that the last time, so he couldn’t pretend the promise counted for much.

Now that the shock had worn off, he noticed Miriam’s shape was distinctly feminine. More so than he’d seen last night. She had long, supple legs, a narrow waist, and noteworthy breasts. Her face, resting someplace between a cod and a woman, left a lot to be desired. But her scales glinted beautifully, and the fins atop her head were tall and regal.

“Why don’t you look like you did?” he asked.

“Like this?” She whistled a few pleasant notes. His vision blurred, and she transformed into a tall, dark-skinned woman. Not the same form as last night, but still very familiar. Yet another woman on his list that he couldn’t quite place.

She stopped whistling, and the illusion fell away. “Sharing a bed has given you some tolerance, sir. Now it only works when I sing. That’s why I seduced you. So we could get past it right away. Better for both of us.”

He winced and felt sick. It wasn’t Miriam. He was okay with that. Not happy about it, but okay. Remnants of doom stout congealed in his stomach, coated his throat. He felt like throwing up, but the stout wasn’t letting him off that easy.

She smiled. A nice smile, even framed by plump, purple lips. “Admit it. You had fun.”

He couldn’t really remember. A night with the woman of his dreams and all he could recall was the morning after.

“Permission to leave, sir? If I don’t take a dip, I’ll start flaking.”

He granted it. She slipped into her uniform, offered a casual salute, and left his quarters. He lay on his bed for a while, dredging up blackened bits of sludge from his throat. In a little over fifteen minutes, he’d half filled his chamber pot with a revolting brackish paste.

Someone knocked on his door. He grunted an approximation of “Come in.”

Gabel entered and saluted. “Sir, first officer reporting for duty.”

“Can I help you?” asked Ned, then remembered he was in charge here. “What is it?”

Gabel bowed. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering when you’d like to do your first inspection.”

“Never,” said Ned honestly.

Gabel’s brow furrowed curiously. “Sir?”

“Later. I’ll do them later.”

“And the address, sir?” asked Gabel.

“What?”

“The introductory address, sir? To introduce yourself to the troops.”

“Later.” Ned yawned. “Much later.”

“Yes, sir.” Gabel coughed softly to fill the silence while he organized his thoughts. “Might I ask you a question, sir?”

Ned groaned. “Yes, I was dead last night. And yes, I know they call me Never Dead Ned. But I guess that’s only because Occasionally Dead Ned isn’t nearly as catchy. Does that answer your question?”

“It’s true then. You can’t die.”

“Actually, I die very well. In fact, I dare say I’m the undisputed grand master of the art of perishing. It’s the staying-dead part that I’m not very good at.”

Gabel coughed again to cover an awkward silence.

“I’ve never met an immortal before, sir.”

“I’ve never met such a tall goblin.”

Gabel frowned. “I’m an orc, sir.”

Ned frowned. “Are you sure about that?”

An edge entered Gabel’s voice. “Quite certain, sir.”

Ned rubbed his face and studied Gabel for a few seconds before deciding he didn’t give a damn. “Permission to leave.”

Confused, Gabel looked around the room. “These are your quarters, sir.”

“I was giving you permission.”

The first officer saluted. “Thank you, sir. I’ll alert the men to expect your address later this evening.”

Ned mumbled something that was neither an affirmation nor a contradiction and rolled over in his bed. He disappeared under his blanket, but before Gabel could leave, Ned grumbled from under the covers.

“Do you know of anything that’s good for washing out fishy tastes?”

“I believe the general consensus is a tall glass of warm grog works best, sir.”

“General consensus?”

“Miriam has known most of the other men here, sir. In the most traditional sense of the word.” Gabel grinned wryly. “Shall I fetch that grog for you, sir?”

The blankets bounced up and down in what Gabel took as a nod. He left the room, slamming the door shut. Ned groaned loud enough to hear through the walls. Gabel’s grin vanished.

“Well?” asked Frank.

“Is it him?” asked Regina.

Gabel nodded.

“I thought you said he was dead,” said Frank.

“He was.”

“Are you certain it’s him and not just some other human?” asked Frank.

“I can tell one human from another, thank you very much.” Gabel’s long, goblinlike ears wilted. “And this one is very distinctive. No one would mistake him for anyone else.”

“But how is it possible?” asked Frank.

“Obviously it’s some sort of magic,” said Regina. “Is he a wizard?”

“He doesn’t look like a wizard,” said Gabel.

Frank leaned low, which still made him very tall, and whispered, “Maybe he’s a secret wizard.”

Gabel’s voice boomed in comparison. “A secret what?”

Frank picked up the orc with one massive hand and clamped the other over Gabel’s mouth. The ogre’s meaty palm covered all of Gabel’s face. He flopped around and resisted, but there wasn’t much he could do. Frank nodded toward the far end of the hall, and he and Regina tiptoed away from Ned’s door. Frank released Gabel.

“I could have you court-martialed for that,” said Gabel.

“I didn’t want him to hear you.” Frank tapped the patch on his shoulder. “Besides, I outrank you.”