Grunts (44 page)

“We’re northerners,” Julia Orrin said resentfully. “The north is poor. Fourgate Council keeps us on a tight budget. Always has. No way we could manage without outside funding of some kind.”

Magda Brandiman drew deeply on her pipe-weed holder. “You have a permanent and almost inexhaustible source of revenue in the orc marines. As long as you continue to exclusively sell us magic-null talismans, the orcs will continue to buy. It’s a growing business, armaments.”

The Professor-Mage dug in the capacious pockets of her frock coat, extracted a silver box, opened it, and sniffed a pinch of some substance up her right and left nostrils. “That’s—
asschuuu!
—essentially correct, Your Grace. It would cost us too much time to sell the talismans to individual customers. And in any case, they’re highly experimental technology. Probably unsafe. Civilians wouldn’t use them without
far
more extensive testing. Assh
huu!
”

Julia Orrin wiped her streaming eyes and continued, “Which are all good reasons why this commerce is becoming too risky for the Visible College to continue it. If we’re
found to be involved with gr—with orcs, then our reputations…”

Magda removed her pipe-weed stub, dropped it on the floor of the coach, and crushed it under one tiny heel.

“Let me introduce you to some of the facts of life, Madam Orrin. As far as the general public is concerned, dogtag talismans are standard
protective
devices. It is not known that they
nullify
magic. If that were known a scandal would ensue, and enquiries would be made about the talismans’ origin.”

“Madam,” Julia Orrin protested.

Magda continued relentlessly. “The Southern Kingdoms can’t damage the Visible College. They would be stupid to try. But in the face of public scandal—for example, proof of your selling proscribed magic to orcs—I think they might decline to sell you any magical ingredients you need for your research programmes. I really think they may do that.”

Professor-Mage Julia Orrin sat sweating and completely silent.

“And if your sources of supply dry up…well, as you say, you’re a pure research institute. You don’t produce a product. Nothing to prevent your bankruptcy, anyway. Madam Professor, the Visible College was lost from the first day, when you took my sons’ money for nullity talismans—and didn’t enquire too carefully to whom they would be sold.”

The Duchess Magdelene Amaryllis Judith Brechie van Nassau leaned forward and put her small hand on the Man’s knee.

“Don’t cancel a deal that’s advantageous to both of our peoples. Don’t worry about selling experimental magic to orcs. Your job is to worry about research. I suggest,” Magda said, “that you return to the city of Fourgate and continue it. I’ll handle the business end in Graagryk. I’m sure we’ll continue to deal usefully together for many years to come.”

Magda sat back in her seat and smiled at the back of the frock-coated Man, descending to the steps of the coaching inn.

She remained gazing at the summer sky for some moments.

“Why,” she murmured, “couldn’t
I
get the easy job, gallivanting around the Kingdoms running elections?
Orcs!
”

*    *    *

Beyond Graagryk the roads run south away from the Inland Sea, into the heart of the great and ancient Southern Kingdoms.

Ashnak chewed on the butt of an unlit cigar, his head lifting momentarily as he watched a wind-clipper sail over the roofs of the Serpent Temple in Shazmanar. In the great cities and civilisations of the south there are no ox-carts plodding dusty roads. The mage-powered ship’s wooden keel brushed the tops of palms growing on the temple’s roof-garden. The clipper spread more sail to catch the sun. Hull-down, it drove west.

“Very pretty,” the chief Serpent-Priest remarked.

General Ashnak, in full dress uniform of brown tunic, trousers, and flat peaked cap, reassured him, “Orcs don’t mind beauty. We’re broadminded. It doesn’t offend us. Much.”

The orc gazed across the square at the Serpent Temple’s candystick pillars, wide atrium, and snake-pattern mosaics.

“I’m officially requisitioning that building.” Ashnak belched. “In the name of Ferenzia. Lieutenant Chahkamnit, make a note of the marine temporary campaign headquarters. Priest, let the townspeople know that voting will take place this afternoon, after speeches by Her Dark Magnificence, the Lord of the Empire of Evil.”

“Yessss…” The priest, naked but for chainmail groin-covering, hissed agreement and glided off towards the ochre-and-crimson-painted temple. His skin was curiously sheened for one of the Man-race.

The black orc lieutenant at Ashnak’s elbow beamed. “First class accommodation, sir, what? Nothing’s too good for Herself. Shall I see about mobilising the orcs, sir?”

Ashnak growled, “Get this set up at the double, L.t.!”

“Absolutely, sir.” Lieutenant Chahkamnit saluted. “Only too pleased to be of assistance. Over here, if you please, Corporal Hikz!”

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. Two 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.