by Mary Gentle
“Well?” Ned said.
“You tell me.” Will shrugged. “You’ve seen the elf. Go up to him and say, ‘We have to break siege and go into the fort because they’re holding our mother hostage’; and he’ll say, ‘Tough, war is hell, no dealings whatsoever with the forces of Darkness.’ Or am I wrong?”
Ned shook his head. “Not if I’m any judge of elves.”
Both halflings returned to their wagons, parked sufficiently far from the siege camp that the Light’s scouts had not yet discovered them—which, given the camp’s predilection for concentrating on Nin-Edin itself, amounted to about half a mile. Will looked back at the squat, broken fort in the pass.
“We don’t have long, Ned. I kept my eyes open going through the Light’s camp. If we don’t get into the fort today, there isn’t going to be a fort to get into.”
Ned Brandiman scratched through his greasy brown hair. “We could always set fire to the besiegers’ tents.”
“Why do the orcs any favours?”
“Or we could hire an army of mercenaries. There’s plenty of stray soldiers around.”
Will put his fists on his hips. “And we’re going to get them collected, organised, paid, and here in the next two hours, are we?”
“I’m not totally bereft of practical suggestions.”
Looking injured, Ned moved to the back of one of the wagons and, with some effort, unloaded a wooden chest. He thumped it down onto the snow-covered turf. The icy wind ruffled the curly hair on his feet.
“I knew we’d have to find a way past the besiegers into Nin-Edin, brother Will. So I made plans.”
* * *
Late-morning wind blasted out of the blue sky, cold enough to make even an orc shiver.
Ashnak stared out through the portcullis of Nin-Edin’s inner gate-house. The whole arch above his head was cracked, blocks hanging down precariously a yard lower on the southern side.
“Beg me for terms, then.” The elf removed his sallet helm, exposing aquiline brown features. He sneered down from his horse. “Is that not why you have summoned me? I have suffered a great loss here…I do you infinitely more honour than you deserve in speaking to you.”
Inside the taken bailey, warriors of the Light jeered, banging swords against shields. Ashnak scowled, estimating firepower, morale, magic…
He bared his fangs in a grin. “Better listen good, you pointy-eared asshole. Orcs ain’t the only personnel on the Nin-Edin Marine Base!”
He removed his clawed hands from behind his back, holding a female halfling up bodily above his head, gripping her by the shoulders of her crimson velvet gown. Her bare heels brushed futilely at his peaked ears as she kicked, and her flailing fingernails failed even to scratch his skin.
Amarynth Firehand gasped. “An innocent halfling!”
The forces of Good hissed. Ashnak let them have a good look and then lowered her to the earth in front of him, his talons resting on her diminutive shoulders. “This is a prisoner of war, Commander. Her safety depends solely upon your actions.”
“I…I don’t understand.”
Ashnak showed sharp, curved fangs. “I might hold a military tribunal and decide she’s not a prisoner of war. She might be a spy. Spies get gutted and eaten, or hung on hooks on the walls. Think about it, elf.”
The elven fighter-mage’s eyes brimmed with tears. For a moment there was only the huff of the unicorn’s breath, and the flapping of its indigo caparisons in the wind.
“We…No. No! We can never give in to blackmail. We cannot spare a whole fortress of evil for the sake of one innocent creature,” Amarynth Firehand stated proudly. “We shall kill you all—the Lady will know her own.”
Ashnak shrugged. “Then the halfling gets it.”
He began to tighten his hands, getting a solid grip on the small and muscular shoulders, preparing to rip the halfling’s arms from their sockets.
Faster even than orc-reflexes, nimble halfling fingers groped at the front of Ashnak’s combat trousers, undid the buttons, and slipped inside. A small hand gripped him firmly by the testicles. Sharp halfling nails pricked tender skin.
“On the other hand,” Ashnak hastily added, “I’m not in any way an unreasonable orc…”
The nails retracted fractionally.
Ashnak looked down. The female halfling stared absently out through the portcullis at the besieging army. Apparently resting back against her captor, both hands behind her back. A small hand grasped his member. Another pricked his balls. Ashnak very carefully loosened his grip on her shoulders, which rested against him at belt-buckle height. He swallowed hard.
“I’m always open to the concept of negotiations…”
Both hands kept a firm, chilly grip.
Barashkukor, behind him, gasped. “Sir, are you out of your mind, sir?”
Ashnak snarled dramatically at the elf. “I’m going to give you one last chance!”
“And I shall give you one hour to give her up. Then, orc, you shall pay for all your atrocities.” Outside the gate, the dark elf reined in his destrier and rode back down the hill.
The forces of Light began to mass, preparing to attack.
Small hands began most professionally to squeeze and stroke.
“Mmm…Major, I…ahhhm…” Ashnak’s hands fell to his sides. He muttered, “Stop it! That’s an order!” under his breath, and glanced back over his shoulder at Barashkukor.
“Delaying tactics, Major. We must…must buy time. Go and see if the scouts report anyone approaching. If we can hold out until the talismans arrive—urk!”
Ashnak coughed. Barashkukor and the other officers’ departing boots echoed under the gate arch. The cold wind ruffled the female halfling’s fur-short hair.
She leaned her body back against him, hands still hidden behind her, and the halfling and the orc stood under the arch, gazing out through the portcullis, unseeing of the warriors’ preparations, for quite some time.
A sudden silver trumpet rang a clarion call across the siegeworks of the Light.
* * *
“Monks would have been bad enough!” Will Brandiman whispered.
The road cut deeper into the defile as it approached Nin-Edin. The sun, overhead at midday, illuminated blackened slush and deep cart-ruts. The covered wagon jolted and rocked. He grabbed at Ned and the backboard to steady his balance.
“Patience, Sister. We must put up with discomfort to bring succour to poor sinners.” Ned whacked his cart-whip down on the mules’ quarters with unmaidenly strength. Will wondered momentarily if the skill was genetic.
“Maybe we should have fired the camp…” Will adjusted his gown, hiding his large, booted feet. The faded red homespun wool itched across his shoulders and under his arms. He tightened his burr-lined mortification belt. A Talisman of the Light lay heavy on his padded but still somewhat flat chest.
“I’m going on your judgement of his character.” Ned Brandiman ran a thumb around the edge of his wimple, making sure no coarse hair showed. “This is the only thing I can think of that will get us inside Nin-Edin.”
Will Brandiman stroked his beardless chin. A smear of rouge marked his hand when he lowered it, and he scrubbed it fiercely against his dress, staring all the while up at the broken fortress. The cart slowed, creaking uphill on the main road, and he began to hear the shouts and hammering of the besieging camp, the bawled orders, the clash of warriors scrambling into armour.
“If he’s that good a mage,” he said unhappily, “he’s going to know, isn’t he? And then what?”
“A good mage is not necessarily a clever mage—nor,” Ned observed sententiously, “better at looking under the surface than the next elf. You can always sing to him, sister. Elves like songs.”
Will rumbled under his breath as the heavily laden covered cart ground up between the tents and earthworks, a verse of which the first lines seemed to be There was a maid whose vast capacity / Was only equalled by her rapacity…He studied the faces of the thronging warriors they passed—el
ves with gilded bows. Men dressed in thonged leggings and carrying painted shields, dwarves with axes and hastily braided beards, a few halflings running errands for the cooks.
“That looks like the final attack. You’re right, brother. Sister, I mean. If anything’s to be done, it’s to be done now. And there he is.” Will squeezed Ned’s shoulder.
The cartwheels slipped on the shale as Ned reined the mules in. Will got down with restrained speed and picked his way between tent guy-ropes in Ned’s wake. Lord Commander Amarynth Firehand stood with a group of Men and dwarves in front of an over-embroidered and somewhat battered command tent and turned his dark aquiline face as the two halflings approached.
“The Lady of Light greets you,” Ned said in a flawless contralto, “through her humble servants Sister Hope and Sister Faith.”
Will watched his brother, hands clasped at the buckle of his mortification belt, bow his head humbly. He followed suit. Ned straightened, interlocked his fingers, gazed around wide-eyed at the warriors, and exclaimed, “Glory! To see the power and right arm of the Light, her heroes assembled; it moves my poor heart. All the Little Sisters of Mortification shall pray for you, be assured of that!”
Politeness made Amarynth incline his head. Seeing him on the point of turning back to his companions and ordering the attack, Will pitched his voice high and quavery and spoke. “Sister, do you not recognise him? This is that mighty elven warrior-mage spoken of in Herethlion, and in all the cities of the south. It is Lord Amarynth Firehand himself! The Lady of Light has steered us to you, my great Lord. Her grace shines upon us.”
“Do not let it be said that Amarynth Firehand was ungracious to age.” The elf preened his blue surcoat. “Speak, aged one. What has the Lady of Light to say to Her holy knight before I enter into battle?”
Now that’s a Dark-damned good question! Will looked under his lashes at Ned. His brother’s eyes widened fractionally. No help there. Will drew an unobtrusive deep breath.
“We have travelled far,” he began, “and with great privation have we come to you, although great sustenance lies within our wagon. Not mortal food and wine, but spiritual food—the words of the Lady of Light, which feed beyond measure and satisfy beyond pleasure.”
“We thank you—”
“Do not thank me so soon.” Will held up his gloved hand. He put it down by his side again quickly, the stubby fingers being broad and unfeminine. “The Lady of Light tries you, my great Lord. She knows that you are great in Her service, a mighty warrior before Her chalcedony throne; and that you have slain your thousands and your tens of thousands…”
Very occasionally, Will thought, I have cause to thank Mother for leaving us in the care of a convent school.
“…and that you are a warrior and a mage unparalleled. Now, She tries your mercy.”
Ned Brandiman clapped his hands together, turned his eyes up to the blue midday sky, and exclaimed, “Glory, glory!” Two or three of the elves in the group by the tent echoed his words.
Amarynth Firehand knelt in the churned snow, bringing his dark features on a level with Will’s face. Will lowered paint-thickened lashes. The elf’s slender, steel-shod knees reflected the tents, fires, and weapons of the camp in curved miniature.
“Speak. What will the Light bid me? I will do it.”
Best in public, Will rejoiced. If there’s an ideal place for making theatrical gestures, it has to be in front of his command tent, under the eyes of half his army.
“You must send us up yonder hill. Sister Faith and myself must go, alone and with no armed guard, up into the fortress. There we must give the Light’s word to the poor sinners within. And you must give us time in which to perform this holy act.”
Silence.
Will Brandiman raised his eyes and stared the dark elf in the face. Black-lashed eyes narrowed momentarily, and the fine elven nostrils flared. A sick feeling churned in the halfling’s gut.
Amarynth declaimed, “Let Holy Sisters go unguarded into a nest of orcs? No! No, it cannot be! It shall not be said that I sent two most gallant ladies to their deaths. Never! If you may have no other of my army, then I myself, with my trusty blade, shall walk with you and defend you single-handed against a whole host of orcs.”
Relief robbed Will of words. Ned Brandiman cut in swiftly.
“You must let us go alone, my great Lord. It is your test. It is our test. Our faith must be great enough that we enter even into the citadels of evil to bring Light, and I am named for that Faith. I must live as I am named. Or else how are we better than those who grovel in Darkness? You cannot deny us, great elven Lord!”
Will, his hand fisting his robe, stared right into the face of the elven fighter-mage. “And I am named for Hope, my Lord; the holy Hope that we shall prevail against the Darkness in the souls of those poor transgressors. What does it matter if our bodies are violated, torn, dismembered, dissected—”
He heard Ned make a small noise of distress.
“—or even eaten, so long as we give our souls into the hands of the Light? We are called. You must let us go.”
Amarynth sprang to his feet. The midday sun seared back from his mirrorplate armour and the silver moons embroidered into his blue surcoat. He gestured with one armoured hand.
“You have—” Amarynth’s voice broke. “You have great courage. I will delay my assault on the walls! I could wish that the Lady had called me, as She has so clearly called you, no matter how hard the task. Willingly would I be scourged, whipped, burned, and broken, for Her sake. Oh, that She would cast me naked into the snow, humiliated before mine enemies, if that would mean I might serve Her! I would cast myself wounded, torn, and bleeding at Her feet—”
The elven warrior-mage broke off, choking. Men and dwarves rattled their swords against their shields in applause. Will murmured, “Remind me, sometime, to introduce you to my mother.”
“What saith thou, good nun?” Amarynth queried.
“I said, the Light is a mother to us all, and no mother will let her children come to lasting harm.” Will bared his teeth. It passed for a smile.
Wiping tears from his dark cheeks, the elf snapped his fingers. An aide ran into the command tent and emerged seconds later with a furled flag.
“Take this white ensign. It is an acknowledged sign of peace. It is all I can do. Yet know that you go with Amarynth Firehand’s blessing—and regrets.”
Two hands seized his shoulders. Will found himself smearily kissed, first on one shaven cheek and then on the other. He reached up and took the furled flag, bowed speechlessly, and tottered back towards the wagon. He heard Ned behind him adding felicitous farewells; then his brother was at his side, climbing up onto the front of the cart.
“Haai-yah!” Ned Brandiman whispered, cracking the reins against the mules’ flanks.
“They didn’t even bother to search the cart,” Will grumbled under his breath. “You’ve been hauling that load of scrolls around for nothing. Dark damn it, if I’d known it was going to be that easy…”
A silver clarion call echoed around the military camp, reverberating back from the high mountain walls. His brother shoved the reins into Will’s hands, stripping off his gloves and worrying at the fastenings of the white flag. He shot a glance ahead and upwards as he worked.
Nin-Edin’s outer bailey was a mess of snow, slush, dried blood, mud, trampled bodies, broken weapons, and cast-off dented armour. None of the siege army crossed it, except behind new and hastily thrown up earthworks from which stiffening orc limbs protruded. Nin-Edin’s inner walls glowered down—blackened with sorcerous fire, lined with silent watching orcs.
“That was the easy part,” Ned said.
Will brushed his robes, holding the reins single-handed, and checked the positions of poisoned darts, throwing-knives, short-sword, and small cases of the secret dwarven rock-blasting powder. The bitter wind brought tears to his eyes. He grinned fiercely.
“Sister, where’s your faith?”
8
Ashnak of the orc marines stood in the great hall of Nin-Edin’s keep.
“When they attack, we can break out.”
Barashkukor, standing to attention, touched the brim of his black Stetson. “Yessir!”
“I want all the spare weaponry got out of stores. Each orc is to carry as many weapons as he or she can. If we’re lucky, a fail-weapons spell will affect only the weapon it’s directly cast at—have the marines carry spares and use them one after another. That should give us just enough of a surprise element to break out. We’ll then regroup and take up positions in the mountain caverns, with Dagurashibanipal’s hoard. We can set traps and ambushes, and take prisoners, and I,” Ashnak observed, “have never refused to eat elf or Man in my life. And dwarves are only stringy when the meat isn’t well bruised.”
“But, sir, the caverns can be taken by magic, just as easily as the fort.”
Ashnak growled deep in his throat. Barashkukor swallowed audibly, but continued:
“Sir, there’s nowhere to run to, sir! Not if we don’t have anti-magic capability. Maybe we could find another Dark Mage in time—”
Ashnak drew his jackhammer fist back. He was interrupted by a Badgurlz marine, AK47 held loosely over her shoulder, who stuck her spiked and crested head around the doorway. “Two non-identified non-combatants approaching main gate from the east! They appear to be halflings, sir, in a vehicle. Sir, Varimnak’s squad subjecting them to fire, sir!”
“Halflings?” Barashkukor abruptly sat down on one of the hall’s wooden chairs.
“Halflings!” Ashnak hit his fist into his palm. His eyes blazed. “Major, get your orcs under control! Stop the firing, take the non-combatants prisoner, bring them to me in my office in ten minutes, alert Corporal Ugarit and Marine Razitshakra; move it, marines!”
Ashnak strode out through the cold and wet stone corridors of Nin-Edin. Old snow crusted the floor. Orc marines snapped to attention as he passed. The two SUS marines forming the honour guard at his door saluted carefully, with the less detachable of their limbs.
Five minutes later Ashnak sat behind the vast desk in his command post, chewing an unlit cigar and sorting through piles of paperwork. With his back to the slit window he was a black silhouette of immense bulk and invisible expression. From time to time the sunlight glinted off one of his fangs as he turned his head.