Grunts

by Mary Gentle

  “Do you think the orc garrison will have worked it out yet—that we fooled them into giving us an armed escort to the edge of the wilderness?”

  “And transporting our baggage too? Call it part payment from our nameless employer.” Ned Brandiman reached back. Will placed a cold partridge in the outstretched small hand. His brother added, “So far all we’ve had for our work is whippings, beatings, poverty, and—”

  “—and is it worth attempting to collect payment from an evil wizard, when his guards are dead or worse, and at any rate trapped under a mountain, and what we set out to thieve is still down there with them?” Will paused.

  The ox-cart trundled on down roads that became steadily better-paved as they came closer to the city of Sarderis.

  Will Brandiman bit into the chicken and ripped a wing free. He answered himself thickly, “Yes. It’s worth it. Not our payment—our revenge. What was it you overheard, brother? The nameless has a sister who is called The Named and who wears the armour of Light? I think we should find her, offer our services, and betray what we know to her.”

  The vulture lets the wind feather its wings, rising on a hot thermal. The mountains lie below it like wrinkled grey flesh. Its central vision focuses on the parasites that crawl on that skin. A numerous hive of them, cupped in the fort’s stone claws…

  Pickings are good now. The tough-hided beasts are cast out from the walls, bloodied and sometimes dead, in increasing numbers. True, it is commonly the little or the sick ones. And, true, there is a surprising lack of pickable rubbish in the compound.

  It wheels, wings fingering the sky. Other vultures flock in from the wilderness’s wide skies.

  Below, the orc marine garrison trains.

  Midnight chimed from Sarderis’s city bells. Will Brandiman froze until the harsh clangs ceased. He strained his ears to hear movement from the closed doors that presumably—he and Ned had not been able to case more than the lower floor of the clothier’s shop in daylight—led to bedrooms.

  His night-vision adjusted. He watched Ned pad along the upper-floor corridor, stop at the first door on the left-hand side, and listen for some moments. Ned signalled:

  —No movement.

  Ned reached up, tried the latch, and silently opened the door.

  —Child’s room. Girl asleep.

  Will passed him, treading barefoot and silent to the door on the right. Faint sounds came through the wood. He hesitated, signalled Ned to remain still, and padded down to the end of the corridor. Probably the master bedroom…

  The latch of its door clicked, horrifically loud.

  Will froze, not even daring to look back at his brother. The beamed and low-ceilinged corridor seemed suddenly airless in the summer night’s heat. A scuffling sound came from the room on the right, behind him—someone turning over in bed. But nothing from the room at whose door he stood.

  He opened the door and signalled back, exaggerating the finger-movements in the poor light:

  —One man. One woman. Both asleep.

  Ned nodded, fading back into the little girl’s bedroom. During the day the clothes shop had seemed to have two girls—one seven or eight, the other sixteen or so, almost grown—and a much older male and female Man: the family living over the shop. In a shop doing reasonably well, but not well enough to afford protective spells.

  Will’s nostrils flared. No scent of guard dog. Nothing but the wool-and-herb smell of the clothier’s shop, and the warm odour of sleeping Men. He waited no longer. Eyeing the wooden locker at the foot of the bed, he drew his eight-inch knife and approached the side of the mattress on which the middle-aged Man was sleeping. The man had yellow-tinged grey hair and liver-spotted hands.

  Will clamped his hand over the Man’s mouth, pinching the nostrils shut; sliced the razor-edged hunting knife through the Man’s throat, and then stabbed it up under the ribs into the heart. The body heaved and twitched once, going instantly into shock and then death.

  The female Man stirred, rolled a little, and reached out her hand towards the man.

  Will Brandiman got one knee up onto the mattress, heaved his body up onto the Man-sized bed, and lurched over the bleeding body. His left hand flailed down, striking the woman above the eyes. She grunted. He slid his hand down over her mouth, hooked the knife across her windpipe and pulled it sharply towards him, and still with the same grip lifted the knife and slammed it down between her ribs. The woman’s throat gurgled. Her body relaxed.

  Weak and shaking, he slid down off the bed. Blood soaked the sheets and mattress, dripping down to the floor. It would soak through the plaster and drip through the ceiling to the shop, he guessed; but that would only be discovered later. Tonight there would be no nosy neighbours—not unless something disturbed the silence.

  Will trod stickily across the bedroom floor and looked down the corridor. Ned stepped out of the small girl’s bedroom. He held his knife, and the front of his doublet and trunk-hose were stained red. He pointed across to the remaining closed bedroom door and cupped his hand to his ears.

  —Eldest daughter, Will signalled.

  He walked down the corridor. A plank gave under his heel. Caught unprepared, he had shifted his weight before he realised, and the wood groaned. He froze.

  Ned pressed his back to the corridor wall, a foot to the side of the right-hand door. Will crossed swiftly to the far side. Inside the room, flint scraped and a lantern sputtered. He heard footsteps move—cross the room—a chair-leg scraped. Nothing more.

  Somewhere a city clock chimed a quarter past the hour.

  Will flexed his shaking hands. The blood dried and flaked off, itching. He pressed his back against the wall, listening until his head felt as though it would burst. The faintest whisking sound might have been pages turning.

  —We have to get her out of there.

  Will nodded, and signalled back:—Get her to the open door. Then we can take her.

  He let his chin rest down on his chest for a moment, and then raised his head. The starlight shone in through the bedroom’s open door opposite, illuminating in that room a bed too small for any Man but a child—a bed full of wet darkness.

  Will put out his fist and knocked on the door, low down. “Lizzey, is that you?”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Go back to bed. I’ll get mum and dad up.”

  Knock, knock.

  “Go back to bed, Lizzey.”

  Knock, knock, knock, knock.

  “Lizzey, go away. I’ll get mum and dad up, and they’ll give you a hiding.”

  Will knocked again, low down on the door. Behind the closed door he heard a chair scrape on floorboards.

  “All right, Lizzey, you just wait—”

  The latch lifted and the door opened.

  “Lizzey?”

  The yellow-haired young woman frowned, caught stooping over to the height of a child. Ned brought his hunting knife up double-handed, slashing across her throat, and buried it in the back of her neck as she pitched forward onto her hands and knees and slowly slumped onto her side.

  Will stabbed up under the ribs and into the heart. The girl’s throat gurgled. He straightened up.

  Less careful of noise now, Will walked through the corridor towards the master bedroom. A faint lamplight streamed out of the older daughter’s room, shining on the sprawled dead body. It gave enough light for to see the lock on the chest.

  “Damn.” Ned swapped lock-picks. “Damn.”

  “Easy…” Will put a hand on his brother’s arm. “Take it slow. There’s no hurry now. It won’t be light for another three hours.”

  The lid gave, opening with a creak that made him flinch by reflex. Will stared into the empty chest. He grunted, smiling slightly; reached down and pulled the false bottom out. The distant lamplight glinted on coin—mostly silver, a few copper bits, and a very few pieces of gold.

  “Just that?” Ned complained.

  “Sarderis is a city. There are such things as banks. This will be today’s takings, nothi
ng more.” Will sifted the money between his stained palms, taking the heft of the cold metal. “It’s still what we said it would be: the easiest way to replenish our funds. Anything more profitable would be harder and take more planning.”

  Ned Brandiman, counting, grunted.

  Will padded back to the eldest daughter’s room. The corridor stank of excrement. He stepped over the body. Something about the unintended eroticism of the way her limbs sprawled reminded him of another female Man, a long time ago, also dead. There was a jug and a basin in the room, and he washed his face and hands and sponged down as much of his doublet and trunk-hose as seemed feasible.

  “One thousand and seven silver shillings, twelve copper pennies, nine gold pounds,” Ned announced. “Fifty-nine pounds eight shillings total. It’ll buy us new clothes, and a pony and harness, and maybe replace some of the equipment…”

  “And make us fitly dressed visitors to The Named,” Will said.

  The smell of blood hung heavily in the air, as sweet and rich as a butcher’s slaughterhouse. His gut rumbled. There is nothing a halfing likes so much as a good meal. He had eaten Man, when times were difficult, and found it more or less palatable, but not when raw.

  “Mmm.” Will raised his eyebrows. “See if the fire’s banked in, will you, brother? If it is, let’s cook some young flesh; it’ll be the tenderest.”

  His brother nodded. “I’ll go look.”

  “And—before the blood dries—I’ll write somewhat on the walls.” Will surveyed the stained white plaster. “Let them think, whoever discovers this, that it was a madman’s act, or done by worshippers of the Dark. Anything to stop them looking for two honest thieves.”

  Ned chuckled, walking towards the stairs that led down to the shop and the kitchens. “I remember the last time we did this—you hacked off the heads and impaled them on the bedposts to make it look like the work of a maniac, not a thief.”

  “It worked, didn’t it? Four copycat killings before the end of that week if I recall. Covered our tracks nicely.”

  Will squatted beside the body of the yellow-haired girl, dipping his fingers in the splashes and gouts of blood. After a while he smiled at his own ingenuity. He wrote:

  I AM ARMURED IN RIGHTUSNES AND MY NAME IS CALLED HIDDEN.

  5

  The Bell HU-1 Iroquois helicopter lurched nose-downwards over the compound of Nin-Edin, skittered in circles, its tail wagging to and fro, and finally planted its skids in the dirt with a crunching thud. Twelve orc marines staggered out of it and weaved away across the compound.

  Wind from the rotors blasted grit into Barashkukor’s face as he leaped from the Huey after them, head down, staggered a few yards away from it, and fell onto his knees on the earth.

  “Shit!”

  On his hands and knees, eyes streaming tears, he proceeded to vomit copiously. Then, lifting his head slightly, he saw that he had thrown up over the (formerly) gleaming toes of a pair of very large combat boots.

  “Corporal Barashkukor!”

  “Yessir! Sorrysir!” Barashkukor climbed unsteadily to his feet. Ashnak smiled ferociously.

  “What’s the matter with you, Corporal? I’m a reasonable orc. Just tell your old sarge what the matter is…”

  “Well, Sarge, it’s—”

  “…BEFORE I RIP YOUR LOUSY, SCRAWNY, PUS-RIDDEN SKIN OFF AND NAIL IT TO THE NEAREST WALL!”

  Barashkukor, ears drooping, wiped his runny nostrils. His green combat trousers were sagging towards his ankles, and he dragged them up, tightening his web-belt, and shrugged the over-large flak jacket further down his skinny body. He snapped a salute, catching one of his long, hairless ears painfully.

  “Sir, sorry, sir. Beg to report, sir,” he said, “I think we’re going to have a problem with the airborne assault, si—Bllleggh!”

  Company Sergeant Major Ashnak looked down at the new layer of slime covering the toes of his boots.

  “Sarge, I…that is…” Barashkukor squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “I’ll just fetch a hammer and nails, shall I, Sarge?”

  “CLEAN THAT UP!”

  Barashkukor’s ears flattened in the blast of the big orc’s wrath. “Sir, yes sir!” He fell to his knees and began licking. “Sir, what about the Huey, sir?”

  The company sergeant major planted both horny fists on his hips, glaring downwards. He spat an unlit roll of pipe-weed a good three yards. The early sun shone on his grenade-loaded webbing and bullet-bandoleers, and lit up the regimental sigils painted on his tusked face. He tugged the peak of his forage cap further down over his beetle-browed eyes.

  “Corporal, get that vomit rocket grounded for good! We’re gonna hafta move out of this position soon. None of you useless bastards can fly the chopper without puking your guts and crashing it—it’s losing me soldiers. Ground it! Frag it! I never want to see the fucking thing again!”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  Barashkukor crossed Nin-Edin’s compound on the double from a racing start, avoiding the piles of oily machinery, disassembled jeeps, turds, and occasional orc corpses littering the ground. The air was already hot. The compound steamed. The fort’s rebuilt stone buildings now bristled with skull-pole insignia, gun emplacements, and orcs in combat gear. He slowed, hearing the sound of squads drilling.

  “Marine Kusaritku!”

  The small black orc turned smartly and saluted. Sixteen of the larger orcs shuffled to attention, drawn up in what they obviously fondly regarded as parade formation. Barashkukor sighed heavily and showed his minute fangs in a smile.

  “Call this drill, marine? These squads need more hard work.”

  The orcs shuffled into semi-upright stances. The sun glinted on their practise blunderbusses and muskets, held at the slope, and on the occasional broom also held at slope-arms position. At least two of the big orcs wore buckets for helmets.

  “Now, you orcs.” Barashkukor planted his feet widely apart and clasped his hands behind his back. “I have a mission of vital importance for you. It may be difficult. It may be dangerous! It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it—and it’s your lucky day.”

  Kusaritku ostentatiously looked up at the dawn sky, picking one hairy nostril. The squad of orcs variously scratched bits of their anatomy, hummed, stared off towards the mountains, and—in the rear rank—continued playing cards. Barashkukor filled his lungs with air.

  “I didn’t say anything about volunteers!” His voice squeaked. He cleared his throat and resumed. “Assholes and elbows, you halflings! Get some ropes and heave that chunk of useless machinery over the wall. I never want to see a Huey again. Now move!”

  The horde of fanged and tusked orcs broke ranks, seizing ropes as they went, and charged towards the helicopter. Kusaritku ran in their wake, shouting unheeded orders.

  “Someone’s going to suffer for that,” Barashkukor murmured, turning smartly on one heel. “Lack of discipline. MFC Duranki! See that Marine Kusaritku reports to Sergeant Zarkingu after he’s carried out my orders…”

  “Sir, yes sir!” The shaven-skulled orc saluted as he passed.

  Barashkukor drew a deep breath and began to walk back across the compound, taking salutes from MFCs and marines even where it was necessary to detour some yards to do it. He buckled the GI helmet firmly down over his long ears. The morning sun shone on one of the stone buildings, now ornamented with a bullet-scarred square of metal upon which someone had painted “Officers Mess.” He could see, through the window, a fistfight in progress—which was not at all impeding the darts game that was also under way. As Barashkukor passed the window, he heard a scream from the orc, nailed to the wall, with concentric target rings painted on her stomach.

  “Sergeant Major!”

  He intercepted Company Sergeant Major Ashnak as the big orc left the Officers Mess. Ashnak surveyed Barashkukor, and hastily moved his boots out of the way.

  “What it is, Corporal?”

  “Sir, you said we’d be leaving this position, sir, and that must mean we’re going to fight, and�
��” Barashkukor heaved in a breath of hot, foetid air. “And you said I could have a real gun, sir; please sir, can I, sir? Now, sir?”

  Company Sergeant Major Ashnak examined his talons. “Certainly, Corporal, certainly. In fact, I think we might even issue you an M79. Follow me.”

  Barashkukor trotted across the compound beside the large orc, towards the ruined stone building marked out as the armoury. He passed a smoking crater in the earth. A scorched size three pair of combat boots occupied the hole, and the explosively dismembered corpse of an orc. Ashnak strode over a second crater, and spat his cigar into a third. Barashkukor narrowly avoided the fourth crater, where a larger pair of scorched boots rocked gently.

  “I see Squad Three’s mine detector is still on the blink,” Ashnak ordered. “Here we are, Corporal. Try this.”

  Barashkukor reached up to the armoury issuing-window and grabbed the gun Ashnak offered. He leaned over backwards to counteract the apparent weight and staggered, finding it unexpectedly light.

  “The M79 forty-millimetre grenade-launcher,” Company Sergeant Ashnak announced.

  Barashkukor strained to grasp the fore-end and stock of the blunderbuss-like weapon, which seemed twice as long as he was tall. He flipped the catch, broke the gun, dropped the positively enormous shell that Ashnak handed him into it, and closed it down. He tucked the stock into his shoulder, muzzle waving wildly as his helmet slipped down over his eyes, and grabbed for the trigger.

  “Testing the weapon now, sa—”

  FOOM!

  The sun shone painfully into his eyes. Barashkukor rubbed a hand across his face and brought it away bloody. Stone dust covered his combat trousers, where he sprawled on his back amongst the rubble of the armoury wall. There was a warm, wet patch at his crotch. His helmet was gone. The M79 grenade-launcher had landed several yards away. Every bone in his body ached, his ears rang, and his nose bled.

  “I should watch the recoil on that one…” CSM Ashnak strode away, grinning, and pointed to a scattered orc body on the far side of the compound, the bits still smoking from the grenade impact. “Get that taken over to the cookhouse. Then get your squad on parade, Corporal, I’ve got an announcement to make. Now, marine!”