by Mary Gentle
“Sir,” Ugarit pleaded, “may I have him, sir? Just a tiny bit, sir?”
“Well, I suppose She wouldn’t miss a toe or a finger, or one of the smaller organs,” Ashnak mused. “On the other hand, we—”
“General, what’s that?” Ugarit, his dirty white laboratory coat flapping around his ankles in the river breeze, suddenly snickered, whinnied, and pointed.
“Don’t interrupt me, you puking excuse for an orc ma—” Ashnak stopped, speechless. “Pits!”
A cloud of dust rose up over the bank of the River Faex. Delta mud, dry as a bone in this summer season, kicked up sky high. Following the plume down to its base led Ashnak’s eyes to a black blob, travelling at high speed towards the moored barge fleet.
“That’s an armoured vehicle.” Ashnak’s nostrils flared, failing to catch the scent of any magic. “That’s one of our armoured vehicles.”
Ugarit removed from his lab coat pocket a miniaturised radiocom, held it to his skinny ear, and shook it. “Sir, they can’t get it to identify, General, sir!”
Ashnak vaulted the poop deck rail, landing heavily and squarely on the lower deck. He strode to the barge rail nearest to the quay. “Perimeter guards!”
A racheting roar shook the earth and sky. The plume of dust switched direction, turning towards the river, trailing clouds of black exhaust. Juddering at its top speed of 30 mph, swaying, gun dipping and rising in a vain attempt to compensate for the terrain, a T54 Main Battle Tank swung down onto the quayside.
Before Ashnak could bellow a warning over the comlink, and with orc marines leaping into the water out of its way, the speeding tank rocketed down the bank, onto the wooden jetty in front of the barge, ground up a spray of timbers in its treads, and shuddered to a halt, its metal casing three feet from where Ashnak stood at the barge rail.
The wooden piles of the quay groaned, cracked, and sank two yards with a sudden jolt.
Ashnak surveyed the banks of the River Faex. Dockworkers fled the wooden quay as the whole length of it swayed. Orc marines who had plummeted off the side swam, in full kit, back towards their own barges. Anxious signals jammed the radio frequencies, coming from farther down the fleet.
“Get me artillery support!”
“Yessir!” Ugarit squeaked.
Ashnak leaned his horn-skinned elbow on the rail of the barge, and rested his massive-jawed chin on his hand. The steel hatch of the T54 flipped open. Ashnak raised his free hand, holding his .44 Magnum officer’s pistol.
A small figure stood up in the hull hatch of the T54 Main Battle Tank. The wooden beams and pilings of the quay creaked, snapped, and sank another foot, tilting the tank’s nose towards the swirling black waters of the Faex. The figure ignored this. It saluted snappily and gave a joyous cry.
“Sir, General Ashnak, sir!”
Ashnak suspiciously narrowed his deep tilted eyes.
The helmeted figure, visible from the waist up, saluted again, and cried shrilly over the noise of the river birds, “Sir, General Ashnak, sir. Major Barashkukor reporting back for duty, sir!”
Ashnak’s you-can’t-fool-me-dickhead-I’m-a-marine expression vanished. “What?!”
“Sir, it is me, sir. Honest, sir!”
The orc standing in the T54’s hatch pulled off its helmet. Long, hairless ears sprang momentarily upright, then drooped in the heat. A broad grin spread itself over only-too-familiar features.
Ashnak stared.
The small orc wore the remnants of a desert camouflage jacket and one glove only. His other hand and arm seemed covered in shiny silver—no, were made of silver metal. And his eye…
The small orc’s right eye had been replaced by a metal socket and zoom-lens, which whirred as he focussed in on his general and flashed in the dawn sun of Port Mirandus.
Ashnak thumbed back the hammer of the pistol he held. “You sure as hell don’t look like any kind of orc to me, boy.”
The small orc cyborg’s face brightened. Both his ears perked up. “Sir, the major can explain that to the general, sir!”
“You’d damn well better be able to!”
As Ashnak drew a bead on the figure in the tank, the dock timbers groaned and gave further way. The back of the tank dropped a yard. The upper casing of the Main Battle Tank was now below Ashnak, the gun swivelling to aim straight between the large orc’s eyes.
“And don’t point that thing at me, you dumbass excuse for a marine!”
“Sir, yes sir!” Barashkukor exclaimed happily. He hitched himself further up out of the T54’s hatch, by the mounted machinegun. “Sir, it was a terrible experience, sir.” The small orc watched Ashnak out of the corner of his one eye. “Worth a medal, sir, do you think?”
“Get on with it!”
“Yessir! Well, it was like this, sir. In attempting to immolate myself and the hostile Bug, I omitted to remember that petrol evaporates.” The small orc, unmistakably Barashkukor despite alterations, sighed wistfully. “There was a flash-burn, not much else. So I expected them to tear me to pieces, sir, same as they did my corporal, but I guess it was having the corporal to practise with gave them ideas, sir, and they more or less put me back together. Not altogether correctly, I have to say, but I think I was an experiment—”
The T54 dropped bodily by six feet. The black waters of the Faex washed around its treads, suspended on the last few pilings of the collapsing dock.
“Well, sir,” the orc continued obliviously, looking up at Ashnak, “after that it was my duty as a marine to escape, so I let them prod me about a bit, and then when they lost interest—well, I think it was more like, put me on one side for lunch—I cammo’d myself up and hid in the desert. Tell you the truth, sir, I don’t think they can smell very well, and they don’t have magic, so they didn’t find me. I made my way back to Gyzrathrani. Couldn’t get through on the comlink, and the Gyzrathrani weren’t being very cooperative, so I told them their OT64 needed a test-drive…”
Ashnak leaned over the barge rail, looking down.
“That is not an OT64 armoured personnel carrier.”
“No, sir. Beg to report, the OT64 broke down seventy miles north of Gyzrathrani. I commandeered another vehicle.” The small orc major coloured. “A camel, sir, I believe they call it. Nasty spitting creature. That got me as far as the edge of the Endless Desert. Damn things don’t taste like much either, sir. Then I ran into a contingent of Gargoyle Marines and got their airborne tactical wing to bring me as far north as Aztechia. Couldn’t reach you on the com, sir, the radio operators didn’t seem to believe who I was. So I borrowed a despatch rider’s motorcycle.”
Barashkukor felt in the ragged combat jacket’s pockets.
“Think I’ve still got his despatches on me somewhere, sir. That broke down two hundred miles back, near the High Ranges. Well, sir, the garrison there still wouldn’t put me through to you—said I had to be an imposter, or some sort of monster.”
The small orc looked hurt.
“Not my fault if the Bugs put me back together with metal. It works, sir. Well. Most of the time.”
A fresh wind swept across the estuary of the Faex River, bringing the homely scent of vampire-bird dung, ogre cooking fires, and sweating orcs. Ashnak raised one beetling eyebrow.
“I’m a reasonable orc, Barashkukor. I just know there’s a good reason why you turn up here in one of my tanks and trash it beyond repair. I just know it. So tell your old general—you ‘borrowed’ the tank from the High Ranges?”
Barashkukor saluted again, catching his ear with the steel fingers of his right hand, and wincing at the pain.
“Not exactly, sir. I borrowed a Cobra helicopter gunship from the High Ranges. But you know how I am about flying, General. It sort of…it…it developed a severely reduced flight potential.”
“It crashed.” Ashnak covered his eyes with his free hand. He thoughtfully weighed the pistol he still held. “And then you took a tank.”
“No sir.” Barashkukor swallowed audibly. “Then I commandeered a milit
ary Hovercraft, sir, to come up the coast of the Western Ocean to Port Mirandus. It, er, sank, sir. I didn’t do anything to it, sir, honest! I think those machines have a design fault.”
“How far did you get, marine?”
“Lalgrenda, sir.”
“Then the tank?”
“No sir. Another APC from Lalgrenda to Kaanistad. The engine burned out on that one. Then I borrowed a staff car. That was fine.” Barashkukor’s eye gleamed, and his socketed lens whirred. “Rolls Royce Silver Shadow with armoured chassis, sir. Sweet as a nut. Drove like a dream.”
“That,” Ashnak pointed at the T54 Main Battle Tank, the water now lapping halfway up its filth-crusted sides, “is not a staff car.”
Barashkukor rested one gloved and one steel hand down on the rim of the hatch. He regarded the tank thoughtfully.
“Not a staff car, sir, no, sir. The Fourteenth Armoured Troll Division at Vendivil wouldn’t believe my identity either, sir, so they shelled the staff car. I got out all right, though. That was when I decided I needed armoured capability to get to you, General Ashnak, sir, so that’s when I commandeered this tank from their motor pool. Unofficially. I did leave a chitty.”
The small orc took a deep breath, and coughed, immediately regretting it. The River Faex, as the hot sun warmed it, began to hum.
“Lots of essential information for you, sir, about the Bugs, sir! That’s why I had to get back to you, General.” Barashkukor drew himself up, standing waist-deep in the hull hatch of the sinking T54, his single eye fixed on Ashnak and glowing with hero-worship. “Sir, did I show enough initiative, sir?”
The T54 Main Battle Tank lurched and settled deeper into the greasy water.
“I did my best, sir,” the orc major protested.
Ashnak carefully thumbed down the hammer and replaced his pistol in his belt holster. He braced both hands on the rail of the barge and leaned over.
“Abandon armoured submersible!”
“Sir, yes sir!” The small orc clambered up out of the hatch.
Ragged brown desert-camouflaged combat trousers clung to his skinny leg, rolled up at one ankle. He wore only one combat boot. His other leg, from thigh to foot, shone brightly in the sun. Ashnak stared at the steel bones, tendons, pulleys, and plates.
“I’ll be right—” whirrr-click! “right with you, General Ashnak, sir!”
The small orc hitched himself out of the hatch, skinny buttocks pointing at the sky, then straightened up, picked up his helmet and crammed it down over his long ears, walked across the casing of the T54 as the tank shuddered, juddered, and—among the scream of splintering timber—sank beneath the surface of the river. Barashkukor flexed his small legs and sprang.
His normal orc-leg pushed feebly. Barashkukor’s cyborg-leg, Ashnak noted with some interest, flexed and sprang with vicious speed.
The small orc shot up and sideways.
“HEEAAARGGGH!”
Barashkukor smacked into the side of the barge two feet below Ashnak. The large orc reached down, seized the small orc marine officer by the seat of his combat trousers, and dragged him up and over the rail. He dropped Barashkukor on the deck.
“Salute when you see an officer!” Ashnak roared.
Barashkukor’s helmet rolled in small circles on the deck of the barge. The small orc’s ears flattened in the blast. Hurriedly, whirring and clicking the while, Barashkukor got to his feet, made a vain attempt to smarten his uniform and combat boot, and directed a salute in the general direction of Ashnak. “Sir!”
The cyborg-orc wavered dizzily as he stood upright.
Biotechnician Ugarit wiped his hands down his white lab coat and edged closer, eyes gleaming as he studied the metal leg, hand, and eye of the orc officer. “May I, General? May I have him? Please, may I?”
“Sir!” Barashkukor’s right eye whirred, focussing. He edged away from the skinny orc technician.
“Well, well, well…” Ashnak reached down, purring.
The large orc hooked a talon in the back of Barashkukor’s collar, hoisting him three feet into the air. He dangled the small orc in the hot southern air, turned him from side to side, inspected him above and below, held him out at arm’s length, and dropped him back on the deck.
Unable to prevent himself, Ashnak showed all his fangs and brass-capped tusks in a beam.
“Welcome aboard, Barashkukor! Welcome back! Between the Dark Lord and the Bugs—you got here just in time for the fun.”
Northeast of Port Mirandus, far up the River Faex, the great Royal Hall of Ferenzia was packed, mostly with Men, which meant every elbow was at face-height, and Will Brandiman twice nearly lost an eye to an unguarded rapier-hilt. He shouldered his way through mail-clad hips, tassets, the tops of high boots, and the horned helmets of a party of dwarves.
In front of him, an elf smoothed down the lapels of her military-cut civilian tunic, touched her brown hair to make sure her glossy braids flowed back behind her pointed ears, and turned to a contraption on a tripod.
“This is Perdita del Verro, your WFTV News reporter at Ferenzia, capital of the south, covering the arrival of the Light candidate in the forthcoming election, the Holy Paladin Amarynth Goddess-Son. With the election only six days away, and the promised scandalous revelations about to be disclosed, tension here is steadily mounting—”
Will Brandiman slicked back his glossy black curls (from which the grey had again been removed with dye-spells), arranged his plain white collar and tightly buttoned doublet, and smiled directly over her shoulder at the camera lens as he passed. Like all WoF’s recording equipment it had “Made in Graagryk” stamped on it.
“‘Kinematographic theatres,’” he murmured, “‘To bring images of the news to one and all, across the Southern Kingdoms.’ I wonder if I could interest Mother in carrying broadcasts from the Good Abbess Edwina and the Reverend William, appealing for the Holy Prayer Wheel Fund…”
He arrived at his vantage-point on the steps of the first gallery.
“I don’t know about you,” a gruff contralto said in his ear, “but I feel like a young halfling let loose in a chocolate factory!”
Ned Brandiman’s red habit bulged more than Will remembered it to, especially around the waistline. He had the suspicion that if he picked his brother up and shook him, the wimpled halfling would clink.
“I’ve told you before about purses,” Will reprimanded. “We’re here for much bigger game.”
Ned’s powdered and painted face creased with laughter-lines. A brown curl escaped from under the edge of his wimple and he tucked it back. “Brother, be sensible. We’ve robbed the Blasted Redoubt. There aren’t any challenges left! Even taking Magorian’s Regalia would be taking sweet-breads from elflings.”
“What I really like about this,” Will observed obliviously, “is that the only thing that orc bastard thinks he has to worry about is the Dark Lord’s election chances. And the Bugs.” He rubbed small calloused hands together. “Little does he know!”
A shrill blasting of silver trumpets shook the chamber. Dirt sifted down from the gothic vaultings. The Royal Hall was only brought out and dusted for occasions of extreme ceremony, Will remembered (from the coronation of High King Magorian, which had also been profitable for purses), and now sweltered behind pointed ogee windows that did not open and behind vast oaken doors that were currently shut.
“Hail Amarynth! Hand of Fire, Goddess-Son!”
The great double doors banged open to another screech of brass. Will, from the first gallery rail, watched the Ferenzi nobles—vastly uncomfortable in the ancient but traditional formal wear of doublet and skin-tight hose, fur robes, tippets, and liripipe hats; none of which seemed overly suited to midsummer in the south—turn their noble heads first for the breath of cool air that entered down the central aisle and then for sight of Amarynth Firehand.
“As you know, I’m not talking about worldly profit, Mother Edwina,” Will observed quietly. “There is a more satisfying spiritual spoil to be had.”
“Trust me,” Will said smugly. “And keep on your furry little toes, brother.”
Dust motes filled the regulation sunbeams that spotlit the throne at the far end of the Hall, under the rose-window, flashing back from King Magorian’s golden armour (which, close up, Ned Brandiman had established to be only gilt) and from the flowing white locks of the High Wizard Oderic.
A rhythmic tread shook the granite floor of the Royal Hall.
Twelve Flagellant Knights in full plate harness clashed through the double doors and down towards the throne. Somewhere in the centre of their banners and ostrich plumes Will detected the dark-skinned Holy elf paladin. He bowed as deeply as the rest of the assembled nobles, in case Amarynth should have his eye on his priest and abbess, and with his head down muttered to Ned, “Is it there?”
“Under one of the knight’s cloaks. Never one to miss a dramatic moment, our Holy One.”
“O great Nobles of Ferenzia!” the elf cried, his high voice quieting the Royal Hall completely. “High King of the South, Magorian of glorious fame!”
“Mpph, what?” The High King sat up, scratching at his balding scalp.
The High Wizard Oderic patted him comfortingly on the arm and stepped forward onto the marble floor before the throne. “Great Amarynth, your return to the councils of the wise is most welcome.”
“But I bring fell news,” Amarynth replied as if rehearsed. Will Brandiman, who had spent much of the past three days rehearsing him, found his lips moving in the shape of the next words: a foul crime has been committed—
“A foul, murderous, impious, and vicious crime has been committed!” Amarynth exclaimed.
“Everybody’s an improviser,” Will grumbled.
He noted that the hot and thirsty assembly, who had assumed themselves there merely for a formal welcoming of the Light candidate to the great and honourable city of Ferenzia, jewel of the south, et cetera and et cetera, straightened up and began to take notice.