Grunts

by Mary Gentle

  “And I am under no illusion,” the Lord of Nightmare added, “as to the strength of those chains.”

  Ashnak was wearing the fetters more from a sense of appropriateness than from coercion. His hand-to-hand fight with the Ferenzi guards had also been in a spirit of play, resulting in no more than their minor maiming.

  “Yessir, Ma’am!” He brought his bare heels down on the pelts and carpets that covered the earth six-deep in the night Pavilion. His combat trousers slid an inch or so lower about his hips, his belt and webbing having being confiscated. The electric light gleamed on his bald head. “Not planning to escape, Dread Lord. Nothing to be afraid of. I’m innocent.”

  The Dark Lord laughed, a soft sound that killed the night insects buzzing around the lamps. She sat enthroned in a chair of basalt subtly carved with all the creatures that slide, or creep, or sting. Masses of paperwork covered her stone desk. Her face showed violet-shadowed, beautiful, and dire.

  “There remain only two days before the final accounting of votes…” She said. “Ah. Brother.”

  The tent flap was pulled up by one of the guards outside—not an orc marine, Ashnak noted—and the cowled figure of the nameless necromancer strode in. Oderic, High Wizard of Ferenzia, followed him, trailing a cloud of blue pipe-weed smoke and leaning on his staff.

  The wind blew chill across the encampment of Evil that lay outside Ferenzia’s Royal Quarter.

  “Orcs!” The High Wizard Oderic stared at Ashnak, knocking his pipe out on the edge of the Dark Lord’s table. Without waiting for permission he eased himself down into one of the plush chairs. “Only goes to prove what I’ve always said about them, M’dear. Orcs are all well and good, I dare say, in their own lands to the east, but would You want Your daughter to marry one?”

  There was an eye-contact between the nameless necromancer and the Dark Lord of which the white mage seemed utterly unaware.

  Ashnak drew himself up as erect as is consistent with the sloping posture of an orc and bellowed resonantly, “I demand a trial to clear my good name!”

  The white-haired wizard guffawed.

  “But you see,” the Lord of Darkness said, “orc Ashnak, it is not a matter of your good name, it is a matter of Mine. You were one of My Horde Commanders. I cannot have My reputation soiled by atrocities you may have committed without My orders.”

  There was no direct response to make to that which would not result in his head being on a pike before dawn. Ashnak settled for falling to his knees in a multiple rattle of chains. The impact of his weight shook the ink-stand on the stone table. He held up his fettered hands in a suitable attitude of appeal.

  “Rather than bring disgrace upon my Mistress I will fall upon my own sword! But,” Ashnak added hastily, catching the gleam in the necromancer’s eye, “that would not clear You, Dread Lord, of the accusations of electoral corruption. That can only be done by bringing me to trial and proving me innocent as soon as possible—Ma’am, you’re going to need the orc marines very shortly, since the last situation report on the Bugs gave their position as being just south of the River Faex.”

  “We need not worry about that,” the Lord of Darkness said. “My brother the nameless, you have had some experience with these orc soldiers. I hereby appoint you the authority of My name. Take over command as their general.”

  Ashnak came up onto his taloned feet with all the speed and strength of a great orc, rock-sized fists clenched, chain taut between them. His voice hit tenor in outrage. “No!”

  “Orc Ashnak, you will not defy Me!”

  Ashnak’s breathing slowed. His granite-coloured hide rippled, blood-gorged muscles relaxing. He dropped his taloned fists back in front of him. “Ma’am—I’m thinking of my orcs. The nameless necromancer has no experience of marine combat! He’ll get my boys killed.”

  The nameless necromancer sprayed spittle across the Dark Pavilion. “What are orcsh for? Battle-fodder! You have been acting above your station for too long now!”

  The Dark Lord said, “Mage Oderic of Ferenzia, you see that I am willing to commit My servant Ashnak here to the Light’s trial.”

  The wizard looked up from searching through the pockets of his tweed robe for pipe-weed. “High King Magorian has decided to appoint my humble self as the judge. I have the trial scheduled for the fifth day after New Moon. That’s ten days from now.”

  The nameless necromancer spoke from the darkness of his cowl. “That is not accsheptible, mage of the Light. The trial must take plasch now, before the electshion to the Throne of the World. My Mishtressh the Dark Lord demandsh it—as your War Leader.”

  Just so there should be no mistaking the intention, the nameless necromancer paused for an obligatory two heartbeats before adding, “The marinesh are not yet fully mobilished. It would be unfortunate if they were not available to use againsht the invaders.”

  Ashnak caught the featureless orange eye of the Dark Lord with a look that spoke volumes, mostly about the nameless necromancer’s failing acquaintance with subtlety.

  “Hold the trial tomorrow,” the Dark Lord suggested.

  “Ah, very well. If you insist.” The wizard conjured up, with a flick of yellow-stained fingers, pipe-weed and a burning match. He lit his pipe. “Shall we say th—hkkk! hkkkhkkkk! kah!—the Hall of Justice, at ten?”

  Ashnak, who had no doubts whatsoever about the Light’s verdict, rehearsed a number of possibilities and reluctantly dismissed physical mayhem. He allowed his massive shoulders to slump. “Am I to be held in military custody, then, Ma’ am?”

  “And have the marines report your unfortunate escape? I think not—” The Lord of Night and Silence halted, Her delicate head tilted to one side as if listening. “Let them enter.”

  The flap of the Night Pavilion was drawn back again by braided silver cords. The wind brought Ashnak the scent of troll-flesh and metal from the door guards, overlain by a pervasive corruption, and a very familiar smell of halfling.

  Magda Brandiman marched across the fur pelts and lifted an armful of broadsheets up onto the stone table. “Latest election edition of Warrior of Fortune, Dark Lady. Hot off the presses. I also have some information too recent to have made the news.”

  For some reason that Ashnak could not fathom, the Dark Lord and the female halfling glared at each other for a moment in silence. Magda’s fur-short hair slicked up like a cat’s under the electricity. The Dark Lord leaned back, pale hair and shadowed face framed by her black robes.

  “We were not aware of your interest in broadsheets.”

  “Graagryk had need of a new sheet with inter-kingdom circulation,” the duchess said, “so I made it my business to acquire one. It is a recent purchase.”

  The halfling had the appearance of having come from a social function to the press room, before coming to the Dark Pavilion. Her arms were ink-smudged below the sleeves of her black gown, and her diamond tiara had been shoved back to make room for a green eyeshade.

  “And this is one of my sources in the military,” Magda said crisply. “Lieutenant Lugashaldim of Covert Intelligence Actions.”

  The Undead orc wore dark glasses, a black beret on one side of his flesh-stripped skull, and a sleeveless black vest apparently made up entirely of pouches and pockets. “Dark Lord, Ma’am! General Ashnak, sir!”

  “I won’t intrude on your private conversations.” The white wizard Oderic eased himself up out of his seat with palpable reluctance.

  The Dark Lord said, “We have nothing to hide in this matter. Duchess of Graagryk, you may speak.”

  “Lugashaldim,” the halfling prompted. Magda stood on one leg, momentarily leaning her hand against Ashnak’s hip for balance, and scratched the sole of her hairy foot. Her other hand, resting against his skin, made the fingerspeech movements for:

  —Watch. Wait.

  “Lieutenant Lugashaldim, you may regard this as a debrief,” Ashnak said.

  “Very well, sir.” The Special Undead Services orc put the heels of his rotting boots together. “I
t recently came to the attention of the CIA that a smear campaign was being conducted against the general during the present election. We have thoroughly investigated this, and I can now announce that there is no foundation in it whatsoever.”

  High Wizard Oderic grunted sarcastically. “And the evidence, foul Undead creature? What of that?”

  Lugashaldim’s gaze remained firmly fixed on the Dark Lord. “Ma’am, the Light candidate Amarynth has no substantial evidence against General Ashnak—the supposed written confession of the witness Kyrial cannot be found. The Man-child herself has vanished. As for the halfling Meadowsweet and his family, they or their inheritors can’t be traced either. Lord Amarynth has no one willing to come forward and testify, Ma’am.”

  Ashnak, having a reasonable idea as to why no written evidence could be found, and where the witnesses might have gone, smirked.

  “But there is the noble elf, Perdita del Verro,” Oderic protested.

  “Regrettably,” Magda Brandiman said, “as I discovered upon Graagryk’s purchase of Warrior of Fortune, the previous owners seem to have sent Mistress del Verro to cover the bush wars in the Drowned Lands, five thousand miles to the west. Even more regrettably, we can’t contact her while she’s on board ship for the two-year voyage. She could be anywhere on the Western Ocean. I fear she will not be able to return in time for the trial.”

  “How regrettable,” the Dark Lord remarked drily.

  Ashnak picked his nose to cover a broad grin.

  “But,” the Dark Lord added, “I’m afraid I cannot expect the Light to take our word for lack of evidence.”

  Magda’s hand slid into Ashnak’s, gripping his gnarled fingers. He looked down at the top of her head and pulled her close for a moment. Between their bodies her fingers moved again:

  —Don’t give up hope!

  “You still agree to a trial, then?” Oderic sounded surprised.

  The Lord of Dead Aeons closed Her long lashes over Her glowing eyes, sitting as still as any effigy in the Halls of Those Who Sleep.

  The nameless necromancer’s hood turned towards Oderic. “What She has said, sho let it be!”

  “Well, well. Goodness me.” Oderic, still standing, blew a succession of smoke-rings, each a further degree of colour up the spectrum than the last. “I’ll inform the jury of the new time for the trial. No, no, don’t bother to see me out. I know my own way.”

  After the guttural challenge of the troll guard ceased, the nameless necromancer spoke again, hobbling away from the stone table. “Lich orc, you are now under my command. You will come with me and tell me all you know. Your Grace of Graagryk, good night.”

  The necromancer held up the tent flap pointedly. Magda dropped a very formal curtsey to Dark Lord and walked out without a backward look. Lugashaldim, after glancing at Ashnak for guidance, followed her.

  “And take off that shilly talishman!” The nameless pointed at the marine-issue dogtag slung around Ashnak’s bull neck. “Dark Lord, I shall return for the orc prishoner in just one moment.”

  Ashnak thoughtfully tested the chains between his wrist fetters. The metal groaned. Troll Irregulars are stronger than common orcs, though not stronger than great orcs. The Royal Quarter of Ferenzia is not that far from the military encampment of the orc marines.

  “I would find you,” a voice whispered, dry as the husks of dead bees. Lashes lifted and the Dark Lord once again watched from Her great basalt throne.

  Nor is it far from the Dark Pavilion to the orc marine camp where the retributive powers of the Lord of Night and Silence are concerned.

  “Since I have consented to play this game, I will not lose it now. If it is My pleasure that you be sacrificed to make My name good in the eyes of fools, then so be it. You are Mine, little orc.”

  The black robes rustled like leaves, and a pale hand upon which the sword calluses were long healed reached out.

  Ashnak by tensing his muscles snapped the fetters around his wrists. He reached up and broke the chain of the marine-issue dogtag, and dropped the nullity talisman onto the stone table before Her implacable gaze.

  * * *

  The same night wind that tugged the guy ropes of the night Pavilion whistled through Ferenzia Station.

  The Reverend Will Brandiman tucked his marine-surplus radio rig back inside his doublet and leaned out of the steam train’s window. “There they are, Ned—right on time.”

  His brother stuck a wimpled head out of the window as the train hissed, chugged, and screeched to a halt on the southern-incoming platform. The air under the high panelled-glass station roof smelled of steam, grit, and food-stalls. A crowd of brightly dressed halflings, elves, dwarves, and Men thronged the platform, all illuminated by the spitting naphtha flares. Their waving banners read, “VOTE LIGHT, VOTE AMARYNTH!” and “AMARYNTH FOR THE THRONE OF THE WORLD!”

  “There’s upwards of five hundred,” Ned marvelled, “on the platform alone. Are all of them Mother’s rent-a-mob?”

  Will tapped the radio rig. “That’s what she says. An audience for us.”

  The two halflings looked at each other as doors banged open down the length of the election express special, echoing in the vast interior space.

  Ned grinned. “Let’s do it!”

  Will slicked back his dyed black hair, still leaning out of the train window. He touched the transit button on the radio. “Hairfoot to Grace, we’re coming in, do you copy?”

  “Grace to Hairfoot, copy loud and clear. Take it away, boys.”

  Cheers echoed. Four fat dwarves unrolled a red velvet carpet towards the Holy One’s carriage. Will ducked back into the train and made his way forward, Ned at his heels.

  “Your Holy Paladinship.” Will bowed. “Your people wish to greet you.”

  “And so they shall greet us.” The dark elf Amarynth, Holy Son of the Lady, stood accoutred in a white robe sewn with pearls. Diamonds fastened his shaggy mane of black hair back above his pointed ears. “Come, let us descend.”

  A flurry of Flagellant Knights descended first, clearing the crowds back. Will assumed a pious expression and clasped his hands before his breast, treading in a stately manner down the small flight of movable steps to the platform. A muttered curse at his back informed him that Ned had trod on his habit’s hem again.

  Questions came rapid-fire from the crowd:

  “Your Reverendship, will you say a few words for the press?”

  “This way, Reverend—smile for the camera!”

  “How’s the campaign going?”

  “Mother Edwina, will you say something for the women of Ferenzia?”

  Will held up his hands soberly. The thronging crowd of halfling ballad-singers, Human gossips, dwarf rumourmongers, and an elven broadsheet camera crew formed a half-circle around the train steps. “Gentlemen! Ladies! One at a time, please!”

  Mother Edwina picked up his skirts and walked to join his brother, whip and handcuffs jangling on his chain belt. “Good people of Ferenzia! It is not we who should speak to you. Behold—the Lady’s Son himself, your Light candidate, Amarynth!”

  Flashbulbs popped and the general decibel level of questions rose to screaming pitch. The crowd behind the press waved their banners, chanting “AM-A-RYNTH! AM-A-RYNTH!” The Holy One appeared in the train door, paused for a moment, then swept down the steps and onto the red carpet.

  “We stand before you filled with Light and hope!” The elf spread his arms. The sleeves of his white robe flashed back the illumination of the naphtha lamps. “In two days the final accounting is due—our victory, which will wipe the treacherous forces of Darkness from the face of the earth!”

  Reverend William Brandiman and Mother Edwina proceeded to orchestrate the taking of questions, Will with half an eye on the guardsmen shepherding Ferenzia’s enthusiastic general public. The gate from the platform into the main body of the station was hopelessly blocked. Will searched the broadsheet gossip-mongers for any familiar face.

  In the second rank of the crowd, effectively c
oncealed by Men’s legs and the skirts of their doublets, Magda Brandiman stood with notebook and quill in hand, a slouch hat pulled down over her eyes.

  “There.” Will nudged Mother Edwina. The wimpled halfling followed his gaze.

  “I see, brother. Mother Edwina will call on her for a question after the dwarf has finished.”

  Will took a deep breath to steady himself. The Holy One’s answer to the dwarf interviewer’s question seemed unusually extensive. He glanced up at Amarynth.

  “…And furthermore,” Amarynth said, “in the certain knowledge of our victory, we have an announcement to make. A most important announcement! It should perhaps wait—but we are so anxious that we cannot.”

  Amarynth Firehand beamed, first at the crowd of journalists and then directly at Will and Ned. The Holy One stepped forward in the expectant silence.

  He sank gracefully to one knee in front of Ned Brandiman.

  “Mother Edwina!” Amarynth Firehand began. “We know that your Order, the Little Sisters of Mortification, is not an Order that forbids congress with members of the opposite sex. Indeed, many of the Little Sisters even marry. Oh, Edwina, marry me!”

  A fury of flashbulbs burst, tripod-cameras catching the expression of stunned amazement on the halfling features of Mother Edwina. Someone behind Will said, “Aw, that’s so sweet!”

  “You must know how we feel!” Amarynth exclaimed. “Edwina, our feelings cannot come as a surprise to you.”

  Ned Brandiman regarded Amarynth for a confused moment. “You’re an elf. I’m a halfling. It would never work.”

  “But it will!” the Holy One protested, holding out a beseeching hand. “Edwina, make us the happiest of elves! Say yes!”

  The crowd of elves, dwarves, and Men around Will scribbled furiously, glancing from the Light’s candidate to the halfling in her red nun’s habit. Will belatedly shut his open mouth. A Man muttered excitedly, “Headline: LIGHT CANDIDATE PROPOSES TO GOOD ABBESS, WEDDING OF THE YEAR, question mark!”

  The Good Abbess Edwina stood on the station platform, her motherly, wrinkled face catching the naphtha lights. The night wind blew around the skirts of her red robe. The silver tip of her whip gleamed. For a long moment she stood perfectly still, gazing into the eyes of the kneeling elf, which were just on her level.