by Roger Moore
Reaching for his belt, the general pulled out a three-pronged device like a black fork with a long central tine. He then lunged around the desk at the knight, the nearest of the attackers, who had drawn a gray long sword and was charging in for the kill.
The sword had begun its downward arc when Vorr’s iron fork aught it, turned it aside with a fluid sweep, and jerked it out of the knight’s grasp. Vorr spun in place, the butt of the fork coming around to slam the knight in the back and throw the human forward. The spin gave Vorr a chance to glance around the room. He then sidestepped and kicked at the axe-wielding dwarf who came at him next. The axe cut through Vorr’s leg armor before it and its owner were knocked rolling more than a dozen feet away.
The fighting became a jumble of sharp, violent images. An elf thrust in with his sword, only to be caught and thrown into the desk, breaking his spine. The snarling dwarf came at him again with a broken nose and a bloodstained beard, long daggers in his red hands. Two chanting priests, human and elven, lost their attack spells when Vorr rushed and leaped up to body-slam them both. Glowing blades tore at his armor and flesh, licked out for his face, stabbed for his back, cut down for his neck. Streams of lightning and energy came at him and were snuffed out as they touched him. Shouts and screams filled the air. He lost track of all time in the madness of dodging and fighting, the crackling flames and smoke, and sprawled bodies and slippery blood.
At some point, he saw that the elven leader was crawling aimlessly across the floor. A bubbling, whimpering noise spilled from the mask of red where his face had been. He was in the way, so Vorr straddled him and grasped his head. The elf’s neck snapped when Vorr wrenched his huge hands backward and sideways, and the elf fell with a clatter of armor at last.
Vorr pulled back and looked around quickly. Across the hazy, body-littered room, only one opponent remained. It was the knight, missing her helmet. Vorr blinked, startled to see a female warrior confront him. She was a tall, blond-haired human, reasonably pretty by their standards. Strands of curly, wet hair were plastered to her forehead and neck. She gripped her recently recovered sword with both hands, crouched and facing Vorr, ready to move in any direction. Vorr saw a faint aura around the woman’s slim gray blade. No telling what it could do, but it mattered little now.
If the woman knew her doom was sealed, she never showed it. She followed Vorr with unblinking eyes. Her mouth was open just a bit, as if she were concentrating on a knotty problem of philosophy. The tip of her sword hovered in the air like a hummingbird.
Not what you’d expect from a human, the general thought, his mind clearing from the battle. He moved right; she rotated, sword up, and coughed once on the foul, smoky air. He kept the three-pronged fork ready in his right hand, pointing down at the floor. His left hand, nearer the knight, was aimed down at the knight’s feet with fingers extended, ready to grab, strike, block, or distract. If the knight didn’t strike, he could try a feint to get within reach of the sword and take it away from her. Or he could throw something to wear her down. This circling around would get old quickly, and it wasn’t becoming to true warriors. Better to drive in and be done with it.
He started forward. The knight adjusted her distance, shifting the grip on her sword to compensate. She coughed again and cleared her throat, but the point on her weapon was still steady and confident. Vorr readjusted his thinking about his foe. She looked to be far better than he had thought. If he lunged in, she could probably evade and thrust at least as well as he could. Her armor didn’t seem to slow her down, so it was probably magical. During the mad melee earlier, she had turned aside one of his strikes and danced back before he could strike on the return swing, and she cut him in the side as well. She must have learned something when he knocked her sword away the first time. This was a real fight. He felt strangely pleased and anxious. Anxious to win.
“I asked you to call if you needed help,” said a petulant voice out of the haze. The voice was silky and feminine, the same voice that Usso had used before he had left.
General Vorr licked his lips. The blond warrior had not moved a muscle while the voice spoke, but now she turned her head slightly, obviously straining to hear anyone approaching from her flanks or rear.
“Let me have her, Kobas,” said the voice. “I want to play, too.”
“Get out of here,” Vorr said in a low, steady voice, his lips barely moving. He noted a pool of blood to the knight’s right and slowly edged backward and to her right to draw her toward it.
“I don’t want you out playing with other girls,” said the disembodied voice with an unmistakable bite to it. Vorr noticed something forming in the air behind the swordswoman. It looked like a glowing rod – no, a sword, floating in the air. One of Usso’s deadlier spells, probably from a prized scroll. The swordswoman did not notice the sword, though she noted that Vorr was looking behind her. She would have to decide now if it was a trick.
“Usso …” Vorr warned, still maintaining his calm but feeling the strain wear his patience away.
The sword rotated in the air, aiming point-first at the swordswoman’s back.
Damn that magic-casting, shape-changing slut, Vorr raged. This was a warrior’s fight. He hurriedly stepped back, anticipating Usso’s imminent attack and trying to get the knight where he wanted her. The swordswoman followed, stepping into the pool of blood.
With a bellowing shout, Vorr lunged at the knight, iron fork coming out and up to strike at her face or catch her blade if she made another roundhouse strike. She didn’t. The woman kept her balance, having apparently been aware of the bloodied floor, and crouched, stabbing directly upward. The blade bit like a viper through a chink in Vorr’s steel armor and deep into the muscle of his forearm. Vorr roared and jerked back in bright pain, but he kept his grip on the fork. He struck down in figure-eight arcs to keep the knight back while he readjusted his stance to regain his initiative and attack with his other hand.
“Game’s over,” said a cold, flat feminine voice. Something punched the knight hard from behind, nearly throwing her forward onto her face. She was suddenly supported awkwardly in the air, bent back like a marionette on a single string attached to her armor’s breastplate. Vorr saw the blood-covered tip of a glowing sword blade thrust out between two plates of the knight’s abdominal armor. The blade continued to push out of the armor, twisting and cutting upward, until two feet of it showed. The knight’s face was hideously contorted with agony, her mouth open wide. She made a strangled, gasping sound.
Falling from nerveless fingers, the knight’s sword clanged loudly against the floor. The glowing sword behind her abruptly vanished. The knight crumpled backward with a metallic clatter and thump, relaxing against the floor.
For a few seconds, General Vorr could only breathe heavily and stare down at the fallen warrior. He lowered his arms.
“Damn you,” he said through his teeth. He looked up at the ceiling and roared aloud. “The lords of the Abyssal Deep take you and keep you! Damn you for interfering!”
The disembodied voice made no reply. She was probably off sulking somewhere. Bitch.
He slowly slid the iron fork back into his belt, then held his wounded arm and put pressure on it to aid the regeneration. Fate had been especially kind to him at birth; Vorr was not only immune to all magic and poison, but his wounds healed at an astounding rate. Vorr often wondered if either his orcish father or ogrish mother had also been part troll; in either event, he was grateful to them for that, if for nothing else. He checked the wound and noted that the bleeding had stopped, though not the pain. When he looked up again, he noticed with surprise that the fallen woman still breathed.
The knight had been a brave one and a good fighter. She hadn’t been a talker, uttering stupid threats like some warriors did. The general hesitated, then undid a flap on one of his small belt pouches and pulled out a tiny silver vial. She deserved an honorable death, at least.
The knight was unarmed, but Vorr doubted she could have lifted a weapon if s
he’d had one. Bubbles of blood formed on her lips, the bright red running down to her neck. Her breathing was labored and irregular. Her eyes were partially open, but she didn’t react when Vorr loomed over her, his round gray face solemn and heavy. He knelt down beside her, keeping one hand free. She might have one trick left.
Vorr unscrewed the cap on the vial, then gently slipped his thick fingers behind her head and lifted it from the cold floor. “Drink this,” he said in a quiet, deep voice. She tried to put up a hand to ward the vial away, but he ignored her feeble strength and put the vial to her bloodied lips. “Drink this,” he repeated. “It will ease the pain.”
Blue liquid poured from the vial into her mouth. She almost gagged, then swallowed reflexively. For a moment she resisted, struggling weakly – then the knight relaxed, the wind easing from her lungs in a long, slow sigh. She looked almost sleepy as the poison took effect, deadening all her pain. She would go out with peace and honor, with the best of the general’s foes.
Her eyes rolled back in her head, then rolled down again and focused as she turned her head toward the general. Her red lips worked as the final sleep took hold.
“I …” she whispered. “I would have … won.”
She smiled, then her head sagged in his hand, her pale eyes closing. After a few moments, Vorr let her head down gently, then recapped the vial.
“Very touching,” came Usso’s voice, echoing in the still room. “Do you do this kind of thing with all the girls?”
Muscles knotted in his neck, shoulders, and jaws. Vorr got to his feet and replaced the vial, then picked up the knight’s sword and laid it across her chest.
“Next time, Kobas, I’ll save you the trouble and just kill all the pixies before they —”
“Shut up! Damn you to the Pits of the Nine Hells! Shut up!” Vorr roared. “Get our of here!”
Silence answered him. He no longer cared if she watched him. They’d settle this later.
He tried the double doors and found them immobile. Whatever spell the attackers had used on it before their entry into the command room had welded the doors together; his antimagical touch was of no help. The smoke was becoming a problem now since he had breathed so much of it, so he broke at the windowpanes to get more air. He next collected the altered spy reports that Usso had brought in just before the attack. Only a few of the papers were damaged, but all were ingible. Many of the unit banners and flags were burned to crispy rags, however; even one of the zwarth hands had been damaged, though not badly so. It was a shame.
There was a shout outside the double doors, followed by a thundering of feet. General Vorr stepped out of the way.
One of the half-ton doors split and danced free of its hinges with a thunderclap explosion, then both doors were smashed to the floor. Two hulking ogres, fully nine feet tall and covered in thick leather and armor plate, crashed into the room, hauling a huge wooden pole between them as their ram. The ogres’ feet crushed and scattered the bodies around them. Behind the ogres came wild and frenzied shouts, and a force of armed ogres and scro poured into the room, swords and axes held high, led by Gargon himself.
For the first time in weeks, General Vorr felt like laughing, out it was entirely too much effort.
“You’re late,” he said. “Just clean this place up.”
*****
“You’re late,” Fleet Admiral Halker said with the trace of a smile, “but I understand you were busy.”
“It’s over with, sir.” In newly cleaned armor. General Vorr bowed and stood at attention before his superior’s cluttered desk. His arm had healed, but his shoulder still burned from the poisoned axe; he ignored it. “Two other guerrilla groups came in with the assassin team, directed at the prisoners’ barracks and the war priests’ armory, but all have been neutralized. We’ve taken only light casualties. Four ogres and seventeen scro died at the armory, and eight scro and eleven orcs at the barracks, among them a war priest on the torture team for the day. Our wizard Usso destroyed those attacking the armory, then assisted with mopping up those who had attacked me.”
“The vermin of Spiral still have some fight in them, then,” the old admiral said with some surprise, leaning back in his cushioned chair. He scratched at the thick gray fur on the head of the worg that sat at his side; the huge wolf panted, eyes closed in pleasure. “Any idea of where they came from, their main base?”
“None, sir. All those who personally fought me are dead now. The war priests will interrogate their spirits within the next few hours. I’ll have them see you for their reports.”
The admiral nodded absently. His heavy black robes shook as he patted the worg’s head, the red spider emblem across his chest partially hidden in the folds of cloth. “I take it that there were no survivors among the other groups of intruders?” he said wistfully, with a pale gleam in his green eyes.
“Two, sir, from the group at the prisoners’ barracks. They’re conscious and ready for interrogation.”
“Ah.” The old scro gave a toothless smile, his snout wrinkling with satisfaction. “It is always good to have a chance to chat with the enemy. I will enjoy my work this evening, once we’ve settled things with our other visitors. Speaking of which, the one in command of the ziggurat is here now. He claims to have an interesting proposal for us.”
Vorr bit back on his next remark. This must have been visible to the admiral, as the old scro waved a lazy hand. “Speak freely. The room is sealed with lead mesh, and no one can spy on us here, or so Usso has informed me. The pyramid ship’s commander is in the waiting room with a few of his bodyguards – under our own guard, of course. The war priests are monitoring him – or it – for spying spells and such. I’d like to have Usso here, but he seems to have business elsewhere.” The general took a deep breath. “Sir, pyramid ships are usually controlled by undead humans. I was involved in a boarding action against one in the Glowrings Sphere, before I came to this fleet. A lich in command there destroyed seventy-two boarders just by itself. Other pyramid ships are reported to be commanded by others of the living dead, working together to bring about an empire of the dead throughout wild-space. I advise the greatest caution in dealing with whatever being claims to command that ship. I put my marines on full alert because of it.”
The old scro nodded again, his lips sucking in over his hardened gums. “Our visitor then lacks subtlety, General, as he has already revealed himself to be a lich, of human origin. He claims not to threaten us and further claims to know the location of, as he says, ‘a treasure to fight for gladly you will.’ His speech is curious, probably archaic. Anyway, he’s said nothing about undead empires so far.”
The admiral was lost in thought. His flat, yellow-green face lacked the scars that marked many other military leaders, but Admiral Halker had climbed the ranks with his own kind of power, rooted in magic, charisma, and a genteel sadism that made even other scro uncomfortable. He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood. The worg licked its lips and watched, then settled down to lie on the floor. Halker adjusted his belted black robes, belt weapons, wheel-lock firearm, and magical paraphernalia, pampering his appearance. “Unless you have any objections, General,” he said, motioning to the door, “let’s go downstairs and see our guest to discuss this ‘treasure to fight for.’ “The admiral then looked up quizzically at his imposing subordinate. “Purely out of curiosity, how did your boarding force deal with that lich in the Glowrings Sphere?”
Vorr looked him in the eye. “I killed it,” he said. The admiral stared at him a moment, then laughed. “Of course! Forgive my asking. You’re a dream come true.”
Being here is a dream come true for me, too, Vorr thought as he agreed modestly and headed for the door. I thought I’d never get away from the hell pit I grew up in. Sometimes, though, I’ve wondered if there wasn’t a reason for things to be as bad as they were early on – a reason to suffer blow after blow, breathing the heavy fumes from Father’s breath, or lying awake with Mother’s demon-haunted shrieks ringing in m
y ears. I was already at the bottom of the pile for having a low-born orcish father and an insane ogre for a mother. I had to kill three scro before they would let me into their military school, no matter that I was stronger than any of them had ever been and healed ten times as fast. The Troll, they called me, and laughed – but rarely to my face. Then they discovered that I was immune to magic and poison, too. After that, they let me do anything and said nothing about it.
So, maybe there was a reason for things to be as they were. I’ve fought all my life, but I’m stronger now for what I’ve withstood. My own parents could not break me when I was helpless before them, but they were helpless enough later when I came home from military school and killed them.
The admiral had finished speaking as they reached the door. Vorr had no idea what the old scro had just said. It didn’t really matter.
“Shall we be off, sir?” Vorr asked politely, opening the door ad stepping aside.
Chapter Three
“You may go in,” said the elven guard politely, opening the door before Teldin’s astonished eyes.
Teldin had no idea of what to say in return. He had prepared himself for an argument or for the kind of disdainful dismissal that he had once received from an old elf on whose ship Teldin had sought passage, many months ago on distant Krynn. But the guard had merely listened impassively when Teldin had asked for an audience with representatives of the Imperial Fleet, thought for a moment, then … Saying nothing, Teldin walked carefully through the door.
There was bright light beyond the front door of the elves’ embassy building, bright enough to remind Teldin of daylight. Brushing against the doorjamb was a sword-leaf plant, waving in a breeze from inside. Elves must like house plants, thought Teldin, a moment before he realized that in walking through the doorway, he had stepped into a clearing in a forest. In shock. Teldin looked around and saw a brilliant golden sun in a clear blue sky above and a wall of tall pines encircling the clearing, which was perhaps a hundred feet across. Elves in pale robes stood in the clearing, a short distance away, but Teldin hardly noticed them. Tall grasses and plants brushed his trousers. A cool breeze, laden with the smell of fresh earth, wildflowers, and evergreen trees, caressed his face.
