Grunts (40 page)

The Hind ceased forward motion and hung, thrumming.

Ashnak leaned forward, taloned hands resting flat on his massive thighs, sweating odorously under the weight of flak jacket, webbing, and arms; but it was not the sweat of fear.

“
Well, now
,” he remarked cheerfully, “
I’m carrying 57mm rockets, wire-guided antitank missiles, 23mm cannon, and an electrically powered gatling-gun in the chin-mounted gun turret. I suppose that might put a hole in your precious city. And I wouldn’t count on those motheaten eagles outflying an attack helicopter with a crack pilot, either
.”

Chahkamnit blushed light brown. “
Jolly decent of you, sir. Wouldn’t have said that myself, you know
.”

The Mage-voices sharpened, echoing through the Hind’s metal frame. “We will perish gladly, knowing that we take with us the Blight of the Earth, the Evil Emperor, the Lord of Darkness Himself!”

The eagles broke their flight patterns, wings beating as they gained height to strike. Ashnak regretfully abandoned his taunts.

“
The Lord of Darkness Himself
is
with us, but I formally advise you now that He’s not making any threat against your ground establishment or personnel. You’ll be making a completely unprovoked attack on us!
”

There was a puzzled silence, after which one of the voices, somewhat petulantly, said, “We cannot let you pass unhindered! You have the Dark Lord with you!”

The second Mage-voice cut in. “It’s a trick! If the Dark Lord is here, with these few troops, then He must have an army hidden from our sight, about to descend on our city! Why else would He come here but to make hideous war on us?”

“
Actually
,” Ashnak rumbled, “
He just wants to talk to you
.”

There was a pause.

“Talk?” inquired the first voice.

“
Talk!
” spat the second.

“He
wants to talk
,” Ashnak said, “
but I’ve got no objection to blowing you dumbass flyboys out of the sky if I have to. I’m putting this chopper down. You go talk to whoever commands in Ferenzia. If they ain’t outside the town in under fifteen minutes, I’m gonna take and strafe the fuck outta you. Do I make myself clear?
”

In Ashnak’s headphones, the Dark Lord sighed.

“
Diplomacy
,” She reminded him. “
Tact
.”

“
Highly overrated virtues, Ma’am. Ah. There they go. Chahkamnit, take us down
.”

“
Roger, sir. Going down
.”

Making no overtly hostile moves, the Hind sank down with the beauty of machinery defying gravity, escorted by one of the vast-pinioned eagles. A preying yellow eye stared in through the Hind’s canopy with infinite amusement and weariness in it, tolerating the mage that rode its feathered back.

Lieutenant Chahkamnit brought the helicopter down in a textbook landing on the hard shore between the lake and the city wall. As the wheels touched, the orc marine squad disembarked to secure the perimeter.

Chahkamnit took off his flying helmet and peered out at the Chinook, two squads of orc marines belly-down behind cover and the third squad forming up as the Lord of Midnight’s bodyguard.

“I say, sir, does the Dark Lord consider this hostile territory? I didn’t think we were actually at war yet.”

Ashnak fastened the chinstrap of his marine-issue helmet. “We’re not, son. The question is, does Herself consider anywhere
not
hostile territory? And then there’s the Ferenzi.”

“Ah. Yes, sir, I take your point.”

Ashnak unbuckled the seat’s crotch straps. Built for a race that certainly was not orcish, they constricted rather more than his circulation. Rubbing his groin, the orc field marshal muttered, “Keep the rotors turning!” and disembarked from the helicopter.

In the deserts of Gyzrathrani, in the jungles of Thyrion, in the tundras of the Antarctic Icelands—there is movement of a kind which has not existed before.

And in other places, too, now.

The animals scent it as if it were a forest fire.

Those beasts that are most magical flee first.

The dwarvish band struck up a waltz. The barbarian swordswoman—persuaded for this official Ferenzi “Heroes of the Last Battle” reception to drape a selection of shawls, at least, over her curvacious form and chainmail groin-covering—ceased to sing. The warrior guests in their evening dress took their partners and moved out onto the dance floor, under the magic-fuelled crystalline chandeliers.

Oderic, High Wizard of Ferenzia, eased through the crowd, his long yellow teeth bared in an official smile of welcome.

“Gandoran!” Oderic shot his cuffs, and shook hands with the Hero of Spine Gap. The tall blond warrior nodded uncomfortably and muttered something appreciative. Oderic added, “Varella will take care of you. Won’t you, Madam Varella?”

The jungle swordswoman, sweaty from the bandstand, flashed her eyes at Gandoran and took his hand, beaming. The Hero of Spine Gap cheered up. Oderic bowed and retreated.

Summer’s late-evening light coloured the sky butterfly-wing blue. Multiple voices rose over the thumping dwarf-music and the clink of magically replenished wine glasses. Oderic proceeded through the ballroom crowd, under the light of spellcast gas-lamps, pausing for a word here, a smile there.

“The reception is a success so far,” a voice said below his elbow.

One veined hand went up to smooth back the white hair that flowed down over Oderic’s cravat and the shoulders of his tweed jacket. The elderly wizard beamed. “Corinna Halfelven!”

You would not know, to look at her, that she had been one of the greatest mages at the Fields of Destruction, second only to Oderic himself. Here in the great Assembly Rooms of the Ferenzi palace, the nobles of Ferenzia wore formal long-tailed black coats and stiff, high collars, with the sashes of knightly orders across their chests. The women (with the exception of a few, including one fighter who continued to wear full plate harness and stood red-faced and sweating
alone by a potted palm) wore multi-petticoated silken ballgowns and precious stones in their braided hair.

Corinna Halfelven wore a lavender-and-lace gown that hugged her three-foot-tall form and swept the floor over her diminutively slippered feet. The ostrich plume in her tiara was tall enough to come level with Oderic’s shoulder.

“We have waited three seasons to honour these heroes,” the half-elven halfling remarked. “It should be a joyous occasion, and yet…I have a dire premonition of evil, Magus Oderic.”

Oderic felt in his jacket pockets for a foul-smelling black pipe, took it out, lit it with a tiny ball of fire from one thumb, and drew deeply. Corinna wrinkled her sensitive elven nostrils at the stench of pipe-weed that always accompanied the famous wizard. She moved a pace away.

“These are those who fought against the vilest corruption in the Last Battle.” Oderic blew a perfect smoke ring. “Is it to be wondered at if those who have touched pitch smell a little of defilement?”

Her small golden eyes narrowed under her fair brows. “You sense it too!”

Leaning on the white oak staff that he carried, Oderic gestured at the thronging hall.

“Here are the greatest nobles of Ferenzia—and mark me well, a lord in Ferenzia is worth a king in a smaller kingdom. Here are the heroes of last Samhain’s Battle, warriors and mages from across the Known World. The heroes of the greatest victory the world will ever see.” Oderic gave a dry, old man’s cough. “Some have journeyed for months to arrive here for this night. I told the High King Magorian, if we cancel this celebration, we shall look fools, and the other kingdoms will lose all confidence in the economy of Ferenzia. So, if there
is
evil…we must simply be prepared to deal with it. I can count on you, Lady Corinna?”

The half-elven halfling glanced towards the canopied throne at the far end of the ballroom. “Of course. But King Magorian—”

“Wait.” Oderic threw back his head, sniffing through equine nostrils. “
Ah.
I fear, gracious lady, that we were both correct in our premonitions!”

The High Wizard turned and walked as briskly as was possible through the crowd. Corinna Halfelven scurried at his heels, plume bobbing over her pointed ears. The old wizard,
his yellow waistcoat and flowing hair marking him out in that formal gathering, leaned heavily on his white oak staff as he approached the great double doors of the Assembly Rooms.

Before he could reach them, the double doors burst open.

The dwarvish band clattered and thumped to a halt, trailing off in a scatter of tuba notes. Dancers slowed their whirling steps. Heads turned towards the door; conversation dropped to shocked whispers; and over the sudden silence Oderic heard a plaintive voice from the canopied throne:

“What is it
now
? No one ever tells me anything. Where’s Oderic? Where’s my wizard?”

“Here, High King.” Oderic’s venerable voice was resonant. He did not bother to look back at the king. The open door now filled with a scurry of red-coated soldiers carrying ceremonial halberds. One of the eagle-rider mages appeared, rushed up to Oderic, and whispered frantically in the wizard’s ear. Oderic’s bushy eyebrows lifted. A further whisper, and the wizard’s features went completely blank.

Recovering himself, he called, “Ladies and gentlemen, I must beg you not to be alarmed by anything you see or hear—”

Squat figures appeared in the doorway.

Oderic muttered a protective ward, only to have his fingertips flash blue sparks as it flew back at him.

“My magic will not bite on them!” Corinna whispered, panic-stricken.

“Nor mine. Wait,” Oderic counselled, his hand shaking. “Do you realise what these horrors must be, elven lady? We are witnessing a new legend of evil!”

The squat figures marched into the hall in close formation. Their muscular brown, green, and black forms proclaimed them orcs, and the tusked mouths and deep-set glinting eyes were familiar enough to the veteran warriors there. Oderic heard shouts for weapons from the crowd behind him. He held up a commanding hand.

“Wait!”

Large boots rang out on the parquet flooring. In smooth order the uniformed orcs marched into the hall, raised metallic tubes to their shoulders, and pointed them each at a different sector of the hall. One barked something in orcish.

“These must be those strange Dark warriors of whom
Amarynth Firehand spoke,” Oderic said loudly. “Orcs! What do you in Ferenzia?”

A very large orc indeed stomped through the doorway. His shrewd, tiny eyes swept the Ferenzi nobility and their guests.

“Freeze, motherfucker!” the orc grated.

Corinna Halfelven stilled her fingers, that had begun to weave the Powers of the Air.

“Awriiight! That’s better. Now, where’s this High King Magorian?”

Behind Oderic, the sea of faces parted. The High King Kelyos Magorian, Lord of the South and North Domains, Defender against the East, limped forward on the arm of a young squire.

Magorian, almost lost in a crimson, ermine-trimmed robe, halted under the glittering brilliance of the magical chandeliers, surrounded by the nobles of the greatest of the Southern Kingdoms. His golden hair had thinned to the point of invisibility. The hands that once wielded enchanted sword and shield now shook, veins prominent on their backs. He lifted cataracted eyes to the orc.

“What
is
that?” he quavered peevishly. “It doesn’t matter. Say the usual thing, I suppose. You enter our court with a show of force: vile creature, we are not afraid of you!”

Beside Oderic, Corinna whispered, “But you, wizard. You are afraid of something, and it is not orcs!”

The High King demanded plaintively, “This
thing
defiles the air of Ferenzia. Why is it allowed to remain here?”

Some of the visiting warriors were already making for the weapons-cache in the cloakroom. Men in sashed waistcoats tutted and glared, and Oderic overheard one bemedalled general mutter, “Damned green scum!”

The orc tipped his round helmet back on his bald head, scratched his ears, and caught Oderic’s eye.

“You.” The orcish voice grated the common tongue. “Wizard. The old guy’s obviously lost his marbles. Get me someone who can count beyond five without using their fingers and I’ll say what I have to say to them.”

“I—ah—I am not familiar with your idiom, sir.” Oderic kept his piercing blue eyes fixed on the squat creature. The eagle-mage’s warning echoed in his ears. He leaned heavily on his staff. “But to spare His Majesty the undue strain of addressing a—ah—an
orc
, perhaps it would be better if you spoke with me. I am Oderic, High Wizard of Ferenzia.”

With surprising formality, the great orc touched its helmet with the talons of its free hand. “Ashnak. Field Marshal of the Horde, and General Officer Commanding the Orc Marines.”

Oderic raised his voice. “The hall will now be cleared of all but the members of the High Council!”

The High Wizard rested his hands on the pommel of his staff, knuckles white, fearing greatly the resurgence of Evil with only one humble old man to stand between it and the Good Peoples. The crowd began to move towards the doors. All of the begowned women shuffled that way, accompanied by men with campaign medals on their dress suits, and some with the sashes of knightly orders. Clerks, merchant princes, and lesser mages began to move, reluctantly. Those who did not stir were those who wore thick robes of state, ornamented gorgets and dress swords—Ferenzi men of middle age with closed, shrewd faces.

The orc barked an unfamiliar word. The other orcs raised their metal sticks.

Dukka-dukka-dukka-FOOM!

Oderic instantly whipped his staff up, casting a Shield of Protection as the room’s chandeliers shattered into crystal splinters. Women screamed. The crowd milled about. The glowing blue fire of the ward brushed the crystal fragments harmlessly away.

The High Wizard had just time to notice that metal shrapnel passed through the magic unharmed.

“Quiet!” The orc did not speak much above a conversational tone, but the great assembly hall became silent and still. The orc flipped open one of the many pouches on his complicated belt, extracted a pipe-weed cigar, and stuck it in his tusked mouth. Looking at Oderic, he jerked a taloned thumb at the warriors and mages in their evening dress.