Ned Brandiman, counting, grunted.
Will padded back to the eldest daughter’s room. The corridor stank of excrement. He stepped over the body. Something about the unintended eroticism of the way her limbs sprawled reminded him of another female Man, a long time ago, also dead. There was a jug and a basin in the room, and he washed his face and hands and sponged down as much of his doublet and trunk-hose as seemed feasible.
“One thousand and seven silver shillings, twelve copper pennies, nine gold pounds,” Ned announced. “Fifty-nine pounds eight shillings total. It’ll buy us new clothes, and a pony and harness, and maybe replace some of the equipment…”
“And make us fitly dressed visitors to The Named,” Will said.
The smell of blood hung heavily in the air, as sweet and rich as a butcher’s slaughterhouse. His gut rumbled. There is nothing a halfing likes so much as a good meal. He had eaten Man, when times were difficult, and found it more or less palatable, but not when raw.
“Mmm.” Will raised his eyebrows. “See if the fire’s banked in, will you, brother? If it is, let’s cook some young flesh; it’ll be the tenderest.”
His brother nodded. “I’ll go look.”
“And—before the blood dries—I’ll write somewhat on the walls.” Will surveyed the stained white plaster. “Let them think, whoever discovers this, that it was a madman’s act, or done by worshippers of the Dark. Anything to stop them looking for two honest thieves.”
Ned chuckled, walking towards the stairs that led down to the shop and the kitchens. “I remember the last time we did this—you hacked off the heads and impaled them on the bedposts to make it look like the work of a maniac, not a thief.”
“It worked, didn’t it? Four copycat killings before the end of that week if I recall. Covered our tracks nicely.”
Will squatted beside the body of the yellow-haired girl, dipping his fingers in the splashes and gouts of blood. After a while he smiled at his own ingenuity. He wrote:
I AM ARMURED IN RIGHTUSNES AND MY NAME IS CALLED HIDDEN.
5
The Bell HU-1 Iroquois helicopter lurched nose-downwards over the compound of Nin-Edin, skittered in circles, its tail wagging to and fro, and finally planted its skids in the dirt with a crunching thud. Twelve orc marines staggered out of it and weaved away across the compound.
Wind from the rotors blasted grit into Barashkukor’s face as he leaped from the Huey after them, head down, staggered a few yards away from it, and fell onto his knees on the earth.
“Shit!”
On his hands and knees, eyes streaming tears, he proceeded to vomit copiously. Then, lifting his head slightly, he saw that he had thrown up over the (formerly) gleaming toes of a pair of very large combat boots.
“Corporal Barashkukor!”
“Yessir! Sorrysir!” Barashkukor climbed unsteadily to his feet. Ashnak smiled ferociously.
“What’s the matter with you, Corporal? I’m a reasonable orc. Just tell your old sarge what the matter is…”
“Well, Sarge, it’s—”
“…BEFORE I RIP YOUR LOUSY, SCRAWNY, PUS-RIDDEN SKIN OFF AND NAIL IT TO THE NEAREST WALL!”
Barashkukor, ears drooping, wiped his runny nostrils. His green combat trousers were sagging towards his ankles, and he dragged them up, tightening his web-belt, and shrugged the over-large flak jacket further down his skinny body. He snapped a salute, catching one of his long, hairless ears painfully.
“Sir, sorry, sir. Beg to report, sir,” he said, “I think we’re going to have a problem with the airborne assault, si—Bllleggh!”
Company Sergeant Major Ashnak looked down at the new layer of slime covering the toes of his boots.
“Sarge, I… that is…” Barashkukor squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “I’ll just fetch a hammer and nails, shall I, Sarge?”
“CLEAN THAT UP!”
Barashkukor’s ears flattened in the blast of the big orc’s wrath. “Sir, yes sir!” He fell to his knees and began licking. “Sir, what about the Huey, sir?”
The company sergeant major planted both horny fists on his hips, glaring downwards. He spat an unlit roll of pipe-weed a good three yards. The early sun shone on his grenade-loaded webbing and bullet-bandoleers, and lit up the regimental sigils painted on his tusked face. He tugged the peak of his forage cap further down over his beetle-browed eyes.
“Corporal, get that vomit rocket grounded for good! We’re gonna hafta move out of this position soon. None of you useless bastards can fly the chopper without puking your guts and crashing it—it’s losing me soldiers. Ground it! Frag it! I never want to see the fucking thing again!”
“Sir, yes sir!”
Barashkukor crossed Nin-Edin’s compound on the double from a racing start, avoiding the piles of oily machinery, disassembled jeeps, turds, and occasional orc corpses littering the ground. The air was already hot. The compound steamed. The fort’s rebuilt stone buildings now bristled with skull-pole insignia, gun emplacements, and orcs in combat gear. He slowed, hearing the sound of squads drilling.
“Marine Kusaritku!”
The small black orc turned smartly and saluted. Sixteen of the larger orcs shuffled to attention, drawn up in what they obviously fondly regarded as parade formation. Barashkukor sighed heavily and showed his minute fangs in a smile.
“Call this drill, marine? These squads need more hard work.”
The orcs shuffled into semi-upright stances. The sun glinted on their practise blunderbusses and muskets, held at the slope, and on the occasional broom also held at slope-arms position. At least two of the big orcs wore buckets for helmets.
“Now, you orcs.” Barashkukor planted his feet widely apart and clasped his hands behind his back. “I have a mission of vital importance for you. It may be difficult. It may be dangerous! It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it—and it’s your lucky day.”
Kusaritku ostentatiously looked up at the dawn sky, picking one hairy nostril. The squad of orcs variously scratched bits of their anatomy, hummed, stared off towards the mountains, and—in the rear rank—continued playing cards. Barashkukor filled his lungs with air.
“I didn’t say anything about volunteers!” His voice squeaked. He cleared his throat and resumed. “Assholes and elbows, you halflings! Get some ropes and heave that chunk of useless machinery over the wall. I never want to see a Huey again. Now move!”
The horde of fanged and tusked orcs broke ranks, seizing ropes as they went, and charged towards the helicopter. Kusaritku ran in their wake, shouting unheeded orders.
“Someone’s going to suffer for that,” Barashkukor murmured, turning smartly on one heel. “Lack of discipline. MFC Duranki! See that Marine Kusaritku reports to Sergeant Zarkingu after he’s carried out my orders…”
“Sir, yes sir!” The shaven-skulled orc saluted as he passed.
Barashkukor drew a deep breath and began to walk back across the compound, taking salutes from MFCs and marines even where it was necessary to detour some yards to do it. He buckled the GI helmet firmly down over his long ears. The morning sun shone on one of the stone buildings, now ornamented with a bullet-scarred square of metal upon which someone had painted “Officers Mess.” He could see, through the window, a fistfight in progress—which was not at all impeding the darts game that was also under way. As Barashkukor passed the window, he heard a scream from the orc, nailed to the wall, with concentric target rings painted on her stomach.
“Sergeant Major!”