by Mary Gentle
“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.
“They’re staying right here,” the big orc said. “Nobody leaves. We got no secret
s. C’mon, wizard, get your ass in gear! And by the way—have you got a light?”
Oderic caused the orc’s cigar to bloom a small ember of flame. “Well? What can you have to say to us?”
The orc ambled forward into the room, bandy-legged, grinning as only an orc can. “As marine military ambassador, may I present to you—the Death of Empires, the Blight of Man, the Heresy of Elvenkind, the One Who Lays Waste to Worlds…the Dark Lord of the East!”
Someone screamed.
A hubbub of voices rose, sound flattened by the draped walls. Corinna’s elvishly musical tones sounded clearly:
“It can’t be! He’s dead. I was there at the Fields of Destruction when we slew Him!” The small half-breed leaned up to whisper to Oderic, “Was that the warning they brought you? It can’t be, I tell you!”
“Peace,” Oderic commanded sternly. “It will be an imposter, of course.”
He witnessed Corinna’s elf-gold eyes widen. “No…”
The High Wizard Oderic turned to face the double doors, his last hope gone.
A young female stood there, of a stature tall among Men. Shadows clung to Her yellow hair that was bobbed level with Her chin. Shadows haunted the folds of Her fine metal-ring robe. Her smooth face held a porcelain calm. She did not raise Her head.
Oderic’s bones chilled.
Eight orc marines surrounded Her, green bulging muscles gleaming in the remaining candlelight, bald heads and ears shining. They stood shoulder to shoulder, facing outwards. The large orc, Ashnak, snarled the incomprehensible phrase “muzzle sweep!” and the orc warriors immediately lifted the metal sticks to point away from him. They pointed them at the crowd of Ferenzi nobility instead.
“Odo, send them away!” Magorian protested, tugging the wizard’s sleeve. “Can’t have my royal hall full of damned spear-chuckin’ greenies from bongo-bongo land. Get rid of ’em! Don’t know what the world’s coming to; greenies starting getting above themselves. And who’s that damned fine woman? Nice filly, but she’s hardly dressed for my royal court.”
The elderly wizard snapped testily, “That is the Dark Lord, whom we thought to be dead!”
“Really?” Uninterested, Magorian clutched the arm of his squire and began limping back towards his canopied throne. “Wasn’t like this at the Battle of Moonheart. Mowed ’em down in ranks, we did. Hordes of spear-chucking greenies…”
Before Oderic could restrain her, Corinna Halfelven strode out of the crowd. She glared up—and up—at the tall shape of the female Man. “Die, vile creature of Darkness!”
All the windows along the assembly hall shattered inwards. A wind icy as the heights above mountains soared in. Oderic felt the Powers of the Air, which are vast as the world, press into the palace, masonry groaning at the pressure.
Corinna Halfelven, at the centre of the power vortex, threw out one long-gloved hand and pointed her finger at the heart of the Dark Lord. Her other hand held up the petticoats of her ballgown. Wood-ash pale hair floated about her tiny aquiline face. She cried out in the elvish tongue an incantation older than the glaciers. The Powers of the Air poised at her command.
The Dark Lord, Her voice gentle, said, “No, I don’t think so.”
A smear of grease smoked on the marble floor tiles of the Royal Assembly Hall of Ferenzia—all that remained of the halfling mage.
The Dark Lord stepped delicately over it on bare feet, light from the remaining candles sliding down Her metal-mesh robe. Glints of black light flashed. She raised Her chin, bobbed yellow hair swinging.
“A mage-assassin. The Light has grown hypocritical of late. No matter. It does not harm me. Being dead has, I think, been good for My evil magic.”
Oderic broke the shocked, impressed silence by snapping his fingers. Halfling servants in brown waistcoats, with their shirtsleeves rolled up, pushed through the crowd with mops and cloths, and cleared what remained of Corinna Halfelven from the floor.
“Be swift,” he directed, “but reverent.”
A chill walked down the knobs of Oderic’s spine. He recognised the Dark Lord’s impatience. Battle-hardened, he took his time in turning.
Four orcs clustered tightly around the Dark Lord, blocking the crowd’s sight of Her. The other four split into pairs, heavy metal sticks slung across their backs, and shoved between frock-coated Men, tearing down the few remaining drapes and lace curtains to expose the night-view of Ferenzia beyond the palace windows, and secreting abandoned champagne bottles about their persons. The Ferenzi nobility complained in precise, hysterical accents about “green barbarians.” Oderic kept the same disgust, icy and strong, from showing on his lined features.
“Dark Master.” The big orc knelt formally. “The Royal Assembly of Ferenzia hears you.”
The four orcs with Her knelt, covering the crowd.
Formless Darkness coalesced in Her eyes. The tall, straight young woman raised Her head. A dryness, as of ancient dust, caught in the throats of Men, and those nearest Her grew age-lines in their faces that they never, from that day forwards, lost.
She rested Her hands, lightly, on the shoulders of two armed, kneeling orcs. The assembled nobility of the Light shaded their eyes from Her darkness. Her voice spoke into the silence.
“You thought you had defeated Me at the Fields of Destruction. Poor warriors! Poor mages! Instead you have made Me more strong. For I have died and lived, and what is more strong than that which can overcome death? You think that you have the world in your hands, after that battle. You think the Ages of the World have turned.”
Now laughter, so quiet that Oderic shuddered. To win so great a victory against such hopeless odds, with such sacrifice, and now to see it all to do again…In the crowd, Men wept.
“If I wish, I am strong enough to take the world from you. If I wish, there will be a battle that is truly the last, for after it no Man, no beast, no blade of grass will stir on this unbreathing world. If I wish, I can still the heart in your breast and the breath in your body, merely by My wishing it. If I wish.”
Oderic swayed. Of the heroes of the Light assembled together in the halls of Ferenzia, only he remained on his feet. Sweat rolled down his old Man’s face.
“It was not meant that you should come here and throw this filth in our faces,” the wizard snapped. His bony hand fluttered at his throat and his lips turned blue.
“Was it not?” The Dark Lord seemed unmoved. “But I do not wish to destroy the world in gaining it. It will be more entertaining for Me if it is whole. And therefore…I will step down into the world and compete with you all, upon your terms, in equal contest for election to the Throne of the World.”
Oderic, in the silence that followed, could feel the puzzlement of four hundred and fifty Men.
“‘Election’?” The High Wizard got his breath. “That heresy! I might have expected that from the Lord of Darkness! Who can You say is qualified to elect a candidate to the Throne of the World?”
The Dark Lord, an ancient smile on Her lips, merely inclined Her head slightly. Her big orc got to his feet. Fists on hips, he grinned at Oderic.
“Who qualifies? The same ‘who’ that would have fought at the next Last Battle, that’s who! That means everybody, sucker. Everybody from Men to elves; from hill-giants to halflings!”
The wizard stared testily at the orc.
“Some of my best friends are halflings,” Oderic said, appalled beyond belief, “but really: no. If you once allow halflings—good people though they may be—a say in the councils of the wise, then the next thing you know, we’ll be asked to consult trolls, witches, werewolves…Lady save us, even orcs and necromancers! It just won’t do, I say.”
The halfling servants paused in mopping the tiles, looked at each other, and murmured, “‘E’s right, you know, that there wizard. We know our place, see if we don’t.”
Oderic finished, “We can never agree to it! You’re mad!”
“I ain’t mad.” The orc switched the pipe-weed cigar to the other corner of his tusked mout
h and blew a lopsided smoke-ring. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m mad. Okay, you guys, listen up! You heard the Dark Lord. That’s the way it’s going to be!”
Oderic lifted his head, white hair flowing back over his tweed collar. He caught the eye of others in the crowd—the Lords of Goistan, Lalgrenda, and Istan; Shugbar, Vendivil, Kaanistad, and Hurost. Old companions, who had been carefree soldiers of fortune or wandering mages and who now ruled the estates they had been rewarded with in Ferenzia. Their waists were thickening, they might be more intent on politics now than on drinking or questing, but he saw agreement in their eyes.
“I suppose it was already too late for us,” Oderic said, “when You survived Samhain. I am an old and foolish man, and I should have guessed. I failed. But this remains to me—I will die before I obey one order of the Dark Lord! I speak for every Man here. We can yet go into the afterlife with honour. Do Your worst!”
Cheers rang in the shattered room. Those few Men who had got to the weapons in the cloakroom clashed spear against shield and loosened their tight evening collars.
The Dark Lord’s long-lashed eyelids lifted. Her eyes glowed orange. The hall quieted. Wrapped in a pride as cold as the tiles upon which Corinna Halfelven had died, the Dark Lord of the East regarded Her ancient foes. Oderic saw that She would no longer condescend to explain, much less beg.
“Gentlemen…” The orc, Ashnak, stepped a few paces closer to the crowd. He put his short metal stick in a holster on his belt, and stretched out his open hands.
The sight of an orc willingly disarming itself, rather than bloodily flinging itself into the defenceless crowd, axe-blade swinging, got the attention of the assembled dignitaries, ambassadors, and ministers.
“Gentlemen. Ladies. I know I am an orc,” he said gruffly, “but I appeal to you to hear me. Most of you may already know—we have another enemy on our borders. A terrible enemy. We must unite to fight! We’re facing a geopolitical conflict that makes nonsense of distinctions between Light and Dark. I assure you, gentlemen, we’re all on the same side now.”
