by Mary Gentle
Around midday, the general of the orc marines stood squat-legged on the roof-garden of the Serpent Temple, surveying what could be seen of Shazmanar. The Shazmanarians thronged the main square, staring, with eyes that did not blink in the scalding southern light, at the five parked Bedford trucks and two M113 APCs under a palm tree. The temple beneath echoed to the tramp of combat boots and the bellows of orc NCOs.
“General, sir…” a voice creaked.
Ashnak turned his heavy-jawed head. The midday sun shone on a skeletal orc lieutenant whose rotting black uniform and flesh were rapidly mummifying in the southern heat. One hand, on whose fingers no flesh remained, saluted. Pinpricks of red light burned in rotting eyes and sockets.
“Sir, beg pardon, sir.” Lugashaldim came to attention. “The lieutenant wishes to have the general’s permission to form the Undead marines into a new unit.”
Ashnak pulled a frond from the nearest palm tree, chewed on it experimentally, and spat it out. His dress-uniform jacket pulled tight across his bulging shoulders.
“And why’s that, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, problems of being Undead, sir. We’re magical. Can’t wear nullity talismans.” The orc lieutenant made the kind of motion that in a living orc would indicate taking a deep breath. “Can’t use talisman-protected weaponry either, sir. Have to use it without the nullity talismans. That means the Special Undead Services have had to become very good at covert actions. Sir, I want permission for the Undead to form a unit that can act covertly in military and civil situations.”
Ashnak’s beetling brows raised. “Explain, Lieutenant.”
“Covert Intelligence Actions, sir, that’s what I thought we could call ourselves. We’ve been working on new technology for our CIA elite force, too.” The orc lieutenant, enthusiastic, swung his backpack from his rotting shoulders and began to rummage through it. “Here, sir.”
A skeletal hand proffered a miniature crossbow, almost lost in Ashnak’s hand when the big orc took it. The Undead lieutenant held up a crossbow bolt, and a set of headphones.
“Put the headphones on, sir. That’s it. Now if I take this crossbow bolt with me, over to the far side of the roof…that’s it…you couldn’t hear me now, sir, normally, sir, could you?”
Ashnak peered through palm tree fronds. The sun beat down on the roof-garden. Only a faint smell of carrion gave away the presence of the orc lieutenant. “Very clever, Lugashaldim.”
Lugashaldim thrashed back through the plants to emerge beside the orc general. “It’s a microphone, sir, fitted in the bolt of the crossbow. We can fire this from long distance into a wall or a room and overhear anything that takes place there!”
Ashnak leaned his elbows on the parapet of the roof-garden. He pointed at a slit-windowed building on the far side of Shazmanar’s main square. “Target that second window on the left, Lieutenant. Let’s see if this mother works.”
The Undead orc took the crossbow, swiftly fitted the bolt, raised it and sighted through one milk-blue dead eyeball, and fired. The bolt impacted.
“Holy shit!” Ashnak snatched the headset from his hairless, pointed ears. “Next time you do that without a warning, marine, your balls are going to be on my breakfast table!”
“Sorry, sir. Didn’t think, sir. Try it now, sir!”
Ashnak tentatively replaced the headphones and twiddled the volume control. His leathery forehead ridged as he frowned. Seeing that, the Undead orc frantically fiddled with the RT in his backpack.
“Dead air,” Ashnak said. “Not even an open channel.”
“No, sir,” Lugashaldim admitted.
The two orcs looked down from the roof-garden at the distant window. The speck of the crossbow bolt was plainly embedded in the frame.
Ashnak inquired, “Delicate mechanism, is it, this microphone of yours?”
Lugashaldim looked at the crossbow in his skeletal orcish hand. “Ah. Erm. Well…”
“Go away,” Ashnak said very softly, “and don’t bother me, marine. I have an election to win.”
A greater crowd had gathered down in the main square, many of them staring up, listening to the distant whup-whup-whup of an Apache helicopter gunship. Ashnak swung round, only to walk into the shining bone of his lieutenant.
“Sir!” Lugashaldim held out a black box. “There’s this, sir. In case of sabotage attempts by the opposite side.”
The orc general made a fist.
His Undead lieutenant gabbled: “It’s a remote control device, General. Imagine the scene—one morning you leave your temporary campaign HQ, your driver starts the ignition of your APC, and boom!, there’s an explosive device under it. I don’t trust the Light not to use that dwarven rock-blasting powder of theirs. The CIA will specialise in antiterrorist security, General.”
Ashnak unclenched his ham-sized fist and took the black box. “This does what, exactly, Lieutenant?”
“It’s a remote, sir. The other sensor is attached to the vehicle. It can remote-detonate any device that may have been placed under your vehicle, from a distance of up to one kilometre away. Boom! We lose an APC—but you’re safe, General.”
Ashnak’s large, hairy nostrils flared. “Hmmm…”
“I fixed up a test device under the last van, sir. If the general would like to activate the remote—”
BOOOOMM!
A pillar of black smoke and orange flame rolled up from the main square. Glass shattered in all the surrounding windows. Over the noise of screams, shrieks, and running feet, Ashnak commented, “Hardly what I’d call covert, Lieutenant.”
“But effective, sir. If that had been a terrorist device, we orcs would have taken no casualties from it whatsoever.”
Down in Shazmanar’s square, healer-mages rushed in from the rest of the city, and bodies too fragmented for magery had cloaks and robes thrown over them.
“Yes,” the orc general remarked. “You’re right—no orc casualties at all. I like that. Very well, Lieutenant Lugashaldim Form your Covert Intelligence Actions elite force and keep me posted as to their progress.”
“Yessir, General, sir!” The Undead lieutenant departed, jaws gleaming. A squad passed him, doubling up onto the clear area of the roof, and the honour guard, led by a lean green orc, Corporal Hikz, formed up as the Dark Lord’s helicopter touched down.
Darkness clung to the hot metal of the Apache helicopter gunship, muddying the bright southern sun. A slender form first emerged, cowled in glove-soft leather, a wine bottle tucked under one arm.
The orc saw, under the hood, green eyes glaring from a Man’s face blotched with grey and black. The slobbering lips pulled back, and saliva ran freely down and dripped from the nameless necromancer’s lumpy chin. The front of his robe was damp with spit and wine.
“Assshhnak…Behold our Mashter.”
The Darkness coalesced and oozed from the AH 64 Apache helicopter cabin, and hung, staining the tiles, behind him.
“This way, Your Sable Eminence.” Ashnak addressed the Darkness, touching his talons to the gold braid on the peak of his cap. His medalled tunic clinked. “Everything’s set up.”
“I will speak now. Summon the people of Shazmanar.”
Ashnak descended through the labyrinthine passages of the Serpent Temple. The nameless followed, hood cowling his misshapen head. Darkness dogged their heels, impenetrable even to orc-vision.
“Thish better go right,” the voice of the nameless necromancer slurred.
“Herself in a bad mood? Damn whistlestop tours.” Ashnak kicked and booted the orc marine election HQ staff into rapid movement, medals and ribbons bouncing on his uniformed barrel chest. “Corporal, herd that crowd into the square and shut ’em up! Sergeant, I want that PA activated, and I want it now. Get your asses in gear, you orcs. Go, go, GO!”
A very few minutes later the crowd of serpent-eyed male and female Men of Shazmanar faced wooden posts erected in front of their Serpent Temple. Black hangings hung festooned from the structure, with occasional purple trimmings. T
wo squads of orcs in heavy boots and a great deal of metalware stood in stiff poses on the temple steps. A banner strung from the wooden posts read “VOTE FOR THE DARK LORD—YOU KNOW IT MAKES SENSE.”
A very large orc in a constricting brown uniform mounted the marble steps and cleared his throat. Black boxes at the corners of the square echoed his noise, so that all heard him clearly when he spoke.
“People of Shazmanar! Please give a great big enthusiastic welcome for your Powers of Darkness candidate in the coming election…the Dark Lord!”
The orc walked down the steps. A chill touched the gathered population of Shazmanar. There was a black-cloaked figure in front of the temple now, and none of them had seen it come.
The figure raised pale hands and put the cowl back from its head. The material chimed, as if it might be metal.
Possession was having its effect on the body of The Named. Her rich yellow hair now caught the sun as a bleached white. Sepia-blue shadows haunted the fine-featured face. The rangy Man’s body began to seem swamped in the folds of the black metalmesh robes.
Her eyes opened, lids rising to expose an orange glow.
“Hear Me, people of Shazmanar,” She said, “for I have come to solicit your vote…”
Having heard the speech a dozen times before, Ashnak of the orc marines settled himself behind the Bedford trucks and lit up a pipe-weed cigar, cap pulled down over his eyes. The PA system brought him snatches of the speech:
“…and My aim will be to provide a number of healer-mages in every town who will perform their services freely, because they will be paid by My central government. My government will also be paying a wage to the crime enforcement-wizards, thus cutting down on bribery and corruption…”
The Shazmanarians muttered. Ashnak caught one hiss of “Lunacsssy…!”
“I don’t think She’s quite got the gift of public speaking, sir.” Lieutenant Chahkamnit peered at the standing crowd. “More used to giving orders, I suppose. At least they’re not walking out on Her, sir.”
“They won’t be doing that, Lieutenant. I have Kestrel and Vulture squads deployed at the exits of the square.”
The PA crackled. “…and free housing, together with weekly sums of money paid to those who have reached the end of their working lives. To enable My Dark government to keep these election promises, I shall, if I have your votes, institute a system of voluntary contributions of tiny amounts of money from each of you, which shall be called ‘taxes’…”
A Shazmanarian called, “Evil and corruptsssion!”
Ashnak yawned widely, exposing yellowing fangs and brass-capped tusks to the sun, and belched. A lizard scuttled past. The orc trapped its tail under his combat boot, popped the lizard in his mouth, and chewed contentedly.
“…and under My government, as I am committed to the principle of a multi-ethnic society, I shall ensure that all of us—serpent-people, orcs, liches, witches, and enchanters—live together in unity and prosperity…”
Someone at the back booed.
“Watch the crowd. Single out the obvious troublemakers, Chahkamnit,” Ashnak directed. “You’ll be bringing them to me for interrogation.”
“…and in conclusion, may I add this. We face the greatest peril of this world’s age. We all face an enemy whom even Darkness may, without prejudice, admit to fear. But, who is better able to deal with vileness than the Evil Empire? I say again: if elected, I will pursue with all speed the eradication of this dreadful force from the earth…”
Ashnak ground out his cigar. “Stand by to see Herself back to the Apache, Lieutenant. I’ll handle the rest of this.”
He prostrated himself in front of the Dark Lord as She passed, shrouded again in impenetrable Darkness and bad temper. A bell-like voice addressed him from the murk.
“Tell Me, My orc, is this something I cannot do? When I harangued the Horde in days gone by, they cheered Me loyally to the echo. Where is My error?”
Ashnak refrained from pointing out the Horde of Darkness’s susceptibility to Dark magic (at least at the humble foot soldier’s level) and the general inadvisability of appearing unenthusiastic whilst in the Dark Lord’s Blasted Redoubt of the East.
“It’s only because they’re not used to You, Dread Lord,” the orc general said. “They’re overawed.”
“Ah. Yes. That must be it.”
The nameless necromancer cradled his baby-orc-skull wine-cup, trailing in the Darkness’s wake. From the dark of his hood, his voice slurred, “Perchance it’sh your orcsh, Dread Lord. They do have a negative public image.”
“Yes,” the voice of the Dark Lord mused. “I am disappointed in you, orc. I should not have made you My field marshal. You may consider yourself returned to the rank of general.”
“Ma’am.” Ashnak and the nameless glared at each other.
“Come!”
The Dark Lord departed. Allowing some minutes for the usual turmoil to subside, Ashnak shambled back up onto the temple steps.
“Awriiight! Now listen up, people of Shazmanar. You all know how this here ‘election’ works. Yesterday you saw the Light. Now you’ve seen the Dark. Now you’re gonna vote. And you’re gonna do it right. Ain’tcha? Okay, Lieutenant, get ’em into lines.”
The afternoon sun beat down on Shazmanar’s candy-twist architecture and flowing palm trees. The serpent-people in their mail groin-coverings hissed as orc marines, assault rifles slung over their brawny shoulders, herded them into long columns that wavered across the square. A squad of grunts scurried about with cardboard boxes full of mimeographed sheets, handing them out by the fistful.
“This,” Ashnak waved a specimen sheet of paper above his head, “is called a ballot form. It has ‘Light’ and ‘Dark’ written on it. You make your mark beside whichever one you want to vote for. If you cannot read, my orcs will assist you. Then you put the paper through the slots in these sealed boxes here. Then we count ’em up. Everybody got that?”
Ashnak strode down the steps into the square, elbowing his way to the marines guarding the ballot boxes. Lieutenant Chahkamnit sat with a carton of ballot forms beside him, marking the ‘Dark Lord’ box on each, and stuffing them into the sealed boxes.
“Well done,” the orc general remarked. He shot out a muscular arm, stopping a serpent-man from approaching the sealed box, and plucked the ballot paper out of the startled Shazmanarian’s hand.
“Isss meant to be a ssssecret ballot!” the snake-Man protested.
Ashnak unfolded the paper, furrowing his brow as he read it. “‘The candidate I wish to elect is the Light candidate’…”
The orc shot out a hand, caught the serpent-Man around the throat, lifted him bodily, and threw him over the heads of the crowd. There was a trailing sibilant scream and a thud.
“Wrong!” Ashnak reproved the Shazmanarian as the serpent-Man clawed his way upright. “Now try again, you sorry mother, and this time get it right.”
The crowd hissed and muttered. From somewhere there came the snk! of a bolt-action rifle. As one, the Shazmanarians shuffled forward to the ballot boxes.
Under the gleaming eye of Ashnak, general officer commanding the orc marines, the city of Shazmanar proceeded to record their votes for the Grand Election to the Throne of the World.
6
The further southeast from the kingdoms, the more the roads thin out and eventually vanish altogether. Until, half a continent away from the Inland Sea, the elven rainforests of Thyrion swelter under an equatorial sun.
In the back of the speeding river assault craft, Marine Elendylis Goldenfire abandoned the stately plucking of her harp and gave out with three wailing chord progressions. Marine Illurian Swiftbow cut in with a backbeat, and added a hard-driving guitar riff. The elven music began to motor as the assault craft rocked crazily from side to side on the foaming brown water.
“Move your ass, L.t.!” Gunnery Sergeant Dakashnit bawled over the noise. “Gear up! What’s the matter with you elves? Do you wanna live forever?”
“Funny you should say that,” Lieutenant Gilmuriel Hunt-Lord remarked.
Starlight Squad, last of Gilmuriel’s platoon to hit a dropzone, and the command group he had chosen to go in with, sprawled among heaps of equipment in the body of the assault craft and exchanged laconic backchat as they geared up. Beads and bangles ornamented the elf marines’ combat fatigues, dulled with hard wear, muddy and worn. Marines Dyraddin Treewaker and Belluriel Starharp wore ragged silk scarves as headbands, and marines Goldenfire and Swiftbow had adopted round wire-rimmed smoked glasses. A curious sigil—a circle with a stylised three-toed bird’s claw imprinted on it—had been stencilled on their helmet covers. Corporal Silthanis Blackrose smoked a roll of Dakashnit’s pipe-weed.
“You’ve certainly made these elves into marines, Sergeant,” Gilmuriel sighed in very reluctant admiration. He tipped his helmet back and scratched his pointed ears. “Now—HQ says no chance of reinforcements for at least five days.”
“We ain’t gonna get no help till the election’s over.” Dakashnit straightened up and shook foam from her straight razor, having shaved her crest down to a regulation marine crewcut. She emptied the soapy water from her helmet into the river. The orc then relieved herself in the helmet, tipped it over the side of the boat again, and emptied her pack of combat rations into it. Chewing, she added, “L.t., we’re always getting fucked by the politicians.”
The hulking orc grunt piloting the speeding boat muttered, “Squeakies! Ain’t no fucking use as marines! It’s us orcs has to do the job.”
With heavy sarcasm, Gilmuriel fluted, “I suppose a few hundred orcs are enough to hold back the Bugs’ advance.”
The grunt said proudly, “We’re cadre troops. The marines’ finest. Okay, so we ain’t here in force—just call us the thin green line.”
Dakashnit leaned over. “Marines, these may be squeakies—but they’re my squeakies. Let’s hear some respect.”
“Uh, yessir, Sergeant, ma’am!” The orc steered the powerful boat in towards the bank. “Here’s your drop point.”
Engines throbbed overhead: helicopter support. The nose of the boat beached. The eight-elf squad pitched over the side into leech-ridden mud and squelched ashore. Gilmuriel didn’t pause to watch the rest of the Forest King’s expeditionary force hitting the waterline. The elf, fine-fingered hand grasping his automatic pistol, pounded across the open space and hit jungle cover.
