Grunts

by Mary Gentle

  “She’s obviously a spy for the Light, Sergeant. Why haven’t you executed her?”

  The slender young elf put one hand up to her bodice and pointed at a silver badge. The insignia was easily recognisable.

  “Press,” she said briskly. “My name is Perdita del Verro. I’m a war correspondent—from Warrior of Fortune broadsheet. You’ve heard of Warrior of Fortune.”

  “Warrior of Fortune!” Barashkukor breathed. “Wow! That is, I—well, I read it for the advertisements, of course. Military supplies. Very useful. You’re—did you say you write for them?”

  “Chief news reporter.” Perdita del Verro smiled down at him. She produced a small notebook and a pencil. “Things have been slow since the Last Battle. I really couldn’t miss the chance to come along with Amarynth and interview your boys. No, don’t bother with the weapons—I have the usual magical press immunity. So, Commander…‘Barashkukor,’ is it? How do you spell that?”

  “Assschuu!”

  Perdita del Verro smiled dazzlingly down at the orc, warmth infusing her golden eyes.

  Thoughts of the siege parley completely slipped his mind. Major Barashkukor wiped his nose and began, starry-eyed, to look around the compound of the Nin-Edin fort for something of sufficient interest to impress the elven journalist.

  Far from Sarderis and Herethlion and the sea, north beyond the wilderness that interpenetrates the Demonfest mountain range, lies the Four-Gated City. The city has many more gates than four—they number in the hundreds, if not in the thousands—but of the original gates there are only four remaining: Tourmaline, Chrysoberyl, Lapis Lazuli, and Onyx. The first three are often used, the last never.

  Ashnak’s commandos sensibly chose to make their entrance through the Tourmaline Gate. To remove locks and bars, terminate guards, avoid the Sunset Alarms, and booby-trap the watch-house was no greater task than running the Wilderness for six days and practising marine survival techniques at the unfriendly end of the Demonfest Mountains.

  Twenty-four hours’ surveillance from the attic of a deserted mansion left Ashnak chewing his talons. Past sundown, he lifted the night-vision sights of his M16 to his eyes, watching the last frock-coated and bewigged Men leave the grounds of the Visible College.

  “Not so much as a dwarf down there,” he muttered to Razitshakra. “Not a halfling, not an elf—certainly none of us. No race but Men. That leaves us with forcible entry.”

  Ashnak surveyed the high walls of the Visible College in the curious green illumination of night-sights. He lowered the gun, his own sight being somewhat better. The fifty-foot outer wall gave way inside to parklike spaces with convolutedly trimmed hedges and to buildings with domes, cupolas, columned porticos, and very un-Classical slit windows.

  “Okay, marines. We’re going in…”

  Camouflaged, doing a slow leopard-crawl, it took them an hour to cross unobserved the empty space between the last mansions and the wall of the Visible College. Evening’s noise faded. Ashnak flexed his broad hands in the cover of the wall, craning his neck to look upward.

  The moon rose from the rooftops, gibbous, in its last quarter. Its faint illumination showed him Razitshakra and the other marines crouched against the wall. Ashnak moved silently over to Lugashaldim, looking up at the masonry.

  “Corporal, give me a hand.”

  “Can’t, sir.”

  “What?”

  “It fell off, sir.” The Undead orc marine shuffled, embarrassed. In his large, horny right hand he held his left hand. “I’ll fix it, sir, it won’t take a minute.”

  Stuffing the hand in one of his combats pockets, Lugashaldim detached his sewing-kit from his web-belt one-handed and looked a little helplessly at the thread and needles. One of the other Undead grunts grumbled something, threaded the needle in the faint moonlight, and set about sewing the offending limb back on.

  “If you pussies have quite finished!” Ashnak hissed. “Are we an elite commando squad or are we a fucking sewing circle?”

  There were mutters of “Sorry, sir,” and the Undead orc marines returned their attention to the Visible College.

  “Bound to be guarded with magic,” one SUS marine whispered to his companion.

  The other orc shivered. “Nobody said nothing about magic. That’s the marine corps for you. We get sent on these missions; nobody knows if they’re safe; could have wizards here for all we know; and do we get asked if we—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Ashnak hissed. “Marine Razitshakra, what are your recommendations?”

  The scruffy orc removed her spectacles and gazed for some minutes at the walls surrounding the Visible College. She fixed on the largest dome.

  “If we can go in through that we’ll probably find something. It smells right.” She shot a shamefaced glance at Ashnak. “I’m not really a magic-sniffer, honest, sir. It’s just that sometimes I can tell…”

  “Right. Assault team, that is your target. Corporal Lugashaldim, take them in. Support team Razitshakra and myself will maintain watch here. Maintain radio silence until you’ve scouted the ground thoroughly, then I want to know what’s in there.” Ashnak nodded. “Okay, go.”

  The three marines drew hammers and pitons from their assault vests and, muffling the noise of the strokes, drove staples into the wall up to head height. Lugashaldim swarmed up the wall, and began to drive higher pitons in. The other two marines followed. Slowly, almost silently, they reached the top of the fifty-foot wall.

  Razitshakra whimpered.

  Barely warned, Ashnak hit the ground, covering the back of his neck with both horn-hided hands. A searing flare of blue light crisped his vision. Heat burned his back, even through his urban camouflage jacket. He heard a scream that grew louder and cut off, a thud, and then two more solid, bone-crushing impacts, felt through the earth. An unearthly wail split the night.

  Ashnak scrambled to his feet.

  “Bug out, marine!” He slapped Razitshakra’s shoulder. “Go, go, go! Corporal! Move it!”

  The siren blared. Lugashaldim pounded past him, away from the walls. Ashnak sprinted, combat boots ringing on the cobbles, into the safety of the dark alleys. He loped quietly, and almost as fast, for ten minutes. The commando unit slowed and regrouped.

  “Magical…defences…very strong…” Razitshakra bent double, squat orc body heaving. Her ears drooped from vertical to horizontal. “I’ve never run into anything like it, General! I never anticipated they’d have something like that.”

  Ashnak turned to Lugashaldim. “Your orcs all right, Corporal?”

  “Yessssah!” Lugashaldim brushed lumps of charred flesh from his rotting chest, legs, and face. His decomposing fingers smoked. Part of the back of his skull had been smashed in by the fall. The two other marines were in a similar state.

  “Undead marines do make the best commandos,” Ashnak observed. “Good command decision, though I say so myself. Marine Razitshakra, what chance is there of getting through those defences with explosives?”

  The female orc brushed wretchedly at her spectacles. Shattered glass fell from one frame, where the magical impact had knocked her flying. “Almost none. Those are Repeating Ring defences. Knock one down and there’ll just be another. I didn’t think a research establishment…We’re fucked, General.”

  The moon rose higher. Fourgate’s houses gleamed with lamplight, and Ashnak could hear the talk and laughter from salons five streets away. Orcs on the streets of Fourgate were not exactly inconspicuous.

  “We’re in a city. I’ve been in cities before. I know what we need…”

  The Undead marines and Razitshakra stared at their commanding officer. Ashnak widened his grin, fangs glinting in the starlight.

  “General, look out!”

  His peaked ears swivelled, catching the noise of footsteps coming down the road. Quite a number of them: casual, non-urgent.

  Using silent hand signals, Ashnak directed the orc marine commandos towards the far end of the alley.

  Perdita del Verro flicked
her glossy brown hair into neatness with the same minor magery that reddened her cold cheeks and lips. The tips of her pointed ears stung with the frost. Her eyes shone, her breath huffed visibly on the air. She about-faced.

  Her spellcast pigeon perched on the battlements of Nin-Edin, blank silver eyes fixed. Perdita gave it her sexiest smile.

  “This is Perdita del Verro reporting to you, the loyal readers of Warrior of Fortune. Well, I’ve fallen on my feet here, quite unexpectedly. I’m in the Nin-Edin fort, in the orc encampment, engaged in a siege that has already lasted a whole week. There’s certainly plenty of action—the Light Mage in the besieging camp favours heavy spells from the St. Baphomet Cartulary Grimoire, his elves-at-arms have made a dozen attempts to storm the walls, there may also be sappers at work—but still this garrison is holding out!”

  Perdita gave her trademark lopsided grin into the silver eyes of the pigeon’s magical sound-and-vision memory.

  “Readers, this dishonourable encampment is holding up the great Lord Amarynth himself as he destroys the last remnants of the Horde. I came here expecting to report his swift, glorious victory. These orc warriors—or orc marines, as this strange tribe prefer to be called—don’t have a Dark Mage with them, which normally would make this a very short engagement. Of course, you may wonder why Warrior of Fortune is bothering with such orcish scum…”

  The elf put her fists on her leather-clad hips.

  “Firstly there is their unorcish courage. I shall be bringing you some orcish-interest stories later on. But, more importantly, these orcs have acquired from somewhere a variety of strange, magical weapons. A detailed report of these follows—right now.”

  She snapped her fingers. The pigeon’s eyes returned to black-and-gold. It shivered. She picked the bird up, her hands warming its frostbitten feathers, and threw it high. It scuttered into flight, winging its way unharmed above the snow-covered tents of the Light.

  Major Barashkukor abandoned his desk—completely covered in guard rosters, stores allocations, transfers of weapons, itineraries, stock lists, and personnel forms in quadruplicate—and studied his reflection in the fortress office’s polished stone mirror. He carefully settled a pair of dark sunglasses on his snout. He adjusted the holster at his belt so that the .44 Magnum pistol hung more comfortably and tugged on a pair of tight black leather gloves over his clawed fingers.

  His aide hammered on the door. “Major! She’s there!”

  Barashkukor picked up a low-crowned black hat, its wide brim rolled up at either side. The hatband was decorated with a small tuft of feathers. After some thought he reluctantly removed the decoration’s centrepiece—a dried elf’s ear—and tugged the brim down over his forehead. His Stetsoned reflection looked back at him through Ray·Bans.

  “Yo the marines!” he beamed, and left the tower.

  The female elf waited with his junior officers on the inner wall parapet, overlooking the central compound. Barashkukor strolled briskly up to join her, a dazzled smile widening his lipless mouth. He signalled to the assembled marines by the Research and Development sheds. “Begin the weapons tests, corporal!”

  “Yessir!” Corporal Ugarit, too-large boots crunching through the snow, saluted his superior officer. A new light glinted in his porcine eyes.

  “One!” Ugarit announced. “The precision-guided, fully automatic trebuchet, with smart warhead. Fire!”

  BOOM!

  The large orc by the war-catapult heaved a heavy wooden lever down. The catapult arm rose, hurtling a vast chunk of stone and metal into the air; fell back, rose again, and another missile whammed into the air. Another; and another…

  Barashkukor stood on the parapet beside the Warrior of Fortune correspondent, small fists on hips, watching the missiles fall. Snow sifted down from a grey sky, and a wet cold wind seared his exposed flesh. The small orc grinned, unmoved, as the first missile described a lazy parabola that would take it well past the enemy camp.

  In mid-air it zigged, zagged, and proceeded to crash through the roof of a concealed sapper’s diggings. Distant cries came up through the snowy air. Perdita blinked in amazement. Barashkukor reached up to pat the female elf’s arm, his spindly, hairless ears straightening.

  “Spectacular, isn’t it? We have a superb Research Unit, ma’am. We can match anything Amarynth can throw at us.”

  “Two,” Ugarit shouted, “the repeating crossbow. Radar-guided bolts, fires bursts at three bolts per second. Fire!”

  One orc held up a bulky crossbow, pointing it over the parapet at the enemy tents. A gunner walked up to it, twisted her forage cap back to front on her forehead, squinted through the sights, and pulled the trigger.

  TAKKA-TAKKA-TAKKA-DUKKA-FOOM!

  Heavy steel-headed crossbow bolts shrapnelled the hundred yards between the fort and the first tents, shredding canvas, collapsing stores, ricocheting through the smith’s and barber’s tents. Armed Men and elves dived for cover while the useless shimmer of a protective spell shot up into the chill air.

  “Yo!” Ugarit’s tilted eyes flashed with an unearthly shine. The tall corporal wore a steel helmet well down on his head, and a heavy-duty flak jacket strapped around his skinny body. Barashkukor glanced down from the parapet at the orc, who stood something over a metre taller than he did, and made a command decision to let the weapons tests go ahead unhindered.

  “Three—smart personal weapons! Ready to demonstrate, sir and ma’am!”

  Ugarit skittered up and down the line of waiting marines in the compound, handing out poleaxes and warhammers with jutting metallic and cable additions and adjuncts.

  “Fire-and-forget hand weaponry! Remember, these weapons are smarter than you are, so just swing them and let them do the rest. No, no! Let me get out of the way first!”

  Squeaking, the tall corporal loped up the steps and took refuge on the snow-covered parapet beside Barashkukor and the female elf. The orc marine squad below spat on their horny hands, gripped the unfamiliar shafts of adapted polearms, and raised them.

  SPLAT!

  Barashkukor winced. A casual swipe from one poleaxe hacked off one marine’s arm, twisted in mid-air to block another weapon, changed trajectory one hundred and eighty degrees and smashed an orc-skull, described three separate curves in the space of milliseconds, and dragged its wielder back out of the fight by sheer momentum.

  A smart warhammer drove into that patch of snow-covered earth two seconds later, rebounded, and swung again.

  Half the squad dragged their visibly unwilling weapons backwards. A squat and solid orc marine giggled, swinging his poleaxe with gusto. The endspike impaled an orc corporal. She swore. The axe blade swung the squat orc in a circle, and marines leaped out of range. The poleaxe lifted in its owner’s grip, hovered a second—

  “Halt!” Barashkukor bellowed shrilly.

  The poleaxe twisted up and over and whistled in a short arc, severing the squat orc’s own head. The trunk collapsed. Orc blood steamed and sizzled viridian in the snow.

  The orc marine squad—having carefully put down their weaponry first—slapped each other on the back and set about gathering up severed limbs and the unlucky corpses. The squad leader kicked the bleeding orc-head thoughtfully and raised his head to gaze up at the parapet.

  “Permission to hold an Orcball tournament, Major, sir?”

  Barashkukor looked into the upsidedown eyes of the severed head. “Not until you go off-duty, marine.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, sir. It’ll keep in this weather anyway.” The Marine First Class picked up the severed orc-head by the ears and walked back to his squad, debating in an undertone with his buddy. “You don’t get such a long game when they’ve gone squishy. They’re better good and solid. Maybe we can sell tickets…”

  “No—I don’t want to know.” The female elf sat down a little suddenly on the snow-covered parapet. “Orcball?”

  “Sometimes it’s a raffle,” Barashkukor said helpfully. He fussed, getting the tall, slender elf to her feet, brushing
the caked snow off her leather trousers. He waved at his R&D squad. “Not entirely successful, Corporal Ugarit…”

  “Nossir. And fourthly,” Ugarit said, eyes darting feverishly around, “my state-of-the-art invention. Personal powered armour. It’s a motherfucker of a defence. Just let them try to take me out now! I shall demonstrate this one myself, Major.”

  Barashkukor noted the way the elven reporter’s mouth hung open. Obviously impressed. He proudly puffed out his thin chest, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “Watch this, ma’am.”

  The doors of the Research and Development building crashed open. A team of heavily built orcs wheeled a wooden trailer out into the compound. Resting on it was what at first appeared to be a metal and glass statue of an orc, or possibly unusually full plate harness.

  “Is that armour?” Perdita del Verro queried. “I don’t recognise the country of origin…”

  Ugarit skipped up to the trailer, waving the other orc marines back. He scrambled up, opened panels in the metal casing, and climbed into the steel exoskeleton. The panels clicked shut.

  Barashkukor called, “Corporal?”

  The exoskeleton lay still. A high-pitched whine began to build. Several of the radar and satellite dishes now sprouting from the parapets began to turn. Ugarit, in the full body armour, sat up.

  Metal plate and thick glass sheathed him from his skinny ears to his taloned feet. The powered armour whined, servo-mechanisms activating, put its heavy feet down on the snow-covered earth, and lurched upright. Ugarit’s face, where it was visible, was contorted with glee. His hands could be seen manipulating pressure pads in the heavy glass-and-steel gloves.

  His mechanically amplified voice boomed out, “I’m invincible! I feel like a god! No one can get me now, Major, no one!”

  Ugarit took one step forward.

  The exoskeleton’s left foot came down on compacted snow and skidded forward. Servo-mechanisms shrieked and gyros whirred, compensating. Ugarit’s face, high up and small, could not be seen now, but a wail echoed down from the machine. The powered armour’s right leg lurched another step, came down in soft ice and lodged. The left leg jerked, attempting to pull the other free. Sparks shot from all the powered armour’s joints. The left leg crabbed itself around, beginning to circle faster.