Overhead fire had stripped the glass from the paned roof of the great Assembly Hall of Ferenzia. Warm air and the smell of morning drifted in. Repair-magiks slowly knitted silicon together. Orc marines with buckets and mops, under the direction of a sergeant-major, cleared the rubbish away, whitewashed the more immovable heaps of masonry, and set out officially lettered marine signs reading, “KEEP OFF THE RUBBLE.”
“He’s through here, sir.” Major-General Barashkukor pointed.
Orc marines in ceremonial studded leather armour stood around the Assembly Hall’s panelled walls. They sloped arms with poleaxes as Supreme Commander Ashnak entered.
“Nice touch,” Ashnak approved.
“Thank you, sir!” Barashkukor saluted. “Traditional ceremonial weapon of the orc, the poleaxe. The M203 grenade-launcher attachments were my idea too, sir.”
Ashnak strode across the Hall to where the High King Kelyos Magorian slumped in a carved chair at a table.
“You’re about to miss the first convocation of the World Parliament, Your Majesty,” Ashnak rumbled.
Kelyos Magorian raised his balding head. He screwed a monocle into his eye, staring up at the two orcs—the smaller one in a tailored and bemedalled brown tunic, with more gold braid on his peaked cap than it could fairly carry, and the large one in urbans, web-belt sagging under the weight of pistols, grenades, spare magazines, and formal hand-axe.
“Go away,” the High King said. “Damned greenies! Spoil the game. Two sugars!”
His halfling servant filled a steaming porcelain bowl from a silver trolley beside the oak table, placing it by Magorian on the green cloth covering. The elderly Man muttered, moving the bowl away from copses of dyed-green lichen and contour-carved miniature hills.
“Ha!” Magorian spilled dice from his blue-veined fist and peered at them through his monocle. “The Horde routs! The Light wins, dammit.”
Ashnak reached across to the halfling servant’s trolley and grabbed a fistful of biscuits. Chewing, he lowered his tusked head and studied the table. The myriad model warriors were set out in much the same array as the previous Hallows Eve’s Last Battle.
“Parliament,” he reminded Magorian.
“Think I’m going to watch that damned female now She’s been crowned Ruler of the World? Damned right I’m not. They don’t need me now. Going to retire and do what I enjoy. Fight these battles the way they should have gone.” The High King Magorian blinked fiercely at the orc. “The Light wins. Always. I’ve proved it!”
Ashnak snapped his fingers. A very large orc corporal trotted up, a voluminous blue-velvet-and-ermine robe clutched in her arms. Her squad’s combat boots pounded the parquet floor as they approached at the double.
“By the numbers,” Ashnak ordered, “High King Magorian, for the parliamentary session: dress. Regal crown of Ferenzia: on. Squaaad…wait for it, wait for it…to the Opticon, High King Magorian, marine escort: march!”
Ashnak and Barashkukor strolled out of the Assembly Hall in the wake of the grunts and a protesting High King.
“That the last one, Major-General?”
“Sir, yes sir! We’ve rounded them all up. We have the full legal complement for the new World Parliament, sir.”
Bells battered the bright summer air, ringing out from the only cathedral left standing in Ferenzia after the Bug invasion. Walls demolished, suburbs flattened, the Lake Fleet burned at the quayside; Ferenzia was recovered just enough to welcome delegates from all corners of the civilised land.
Ashnak loped to his jeep, Barashkukor at his heels, and hauled himself into the vehicle. He demanded, “Where’s Magda?”
The skeletal orc driver in the black beret and assault vest surveyed Ashnak though dark glasses. “The colonel-duchess said something about the press, sir, and getting the WFTV cameras into the Opticon.”
CIA Chief Lugashaldim slammed the vehicle into gear and they roared off through the Ferenzi streets, engine noise racketing between the high buildings, crowds hurling themselves out of the jeep’s path.
“I understand Magda Brandiman Enterprizes (Graagryk) Limited has the monopoly on Parliamentary broadcast pictures, sir. Three silver shillings colour, two copper groats black and white.”
Ashnak rested his chin on his fist. “That’s my Magda…”
The jeep hurtled through war-torn Ferenzia, held up in places by the various ongoing victory parades—the Sixth Elf Hussars, the Dwarf Sappers and Miners Brigade, the Eagles (Ferenzia Eyrie, 1st Tactical Wing)—until at last it pulled up outside a domed masonry building with two wings.
“Opticon surrounded by honour guard, as you ordered, sir.” Major-General Barashkukor bustled Magorian towards the arched entrance. Ashnak strolled after, taking the salute from the cordon of heavily armed and flak-jacketed orc marines.
The shelling and street-fighting had by some fluke passed the interior of the Opticon by, doing no more than knock a level of dust from its endless shelves of books. Above the books, on the unshelved wall-space, great fresco maps gleamed intact, picturing in blue and gold and ochre paint the Northern and Southern Kingdoms, and the Wild Lands to the East, and the Land beyond the Western Oceans.
Sunlight filtered down through the circular window in the top of the central dome.
One beam of light illuminated the Throne of the World.
Plush benches had been set up in the gallery space. Ashnak pointed at the front row of benches to the right of the Throne, under the star-painted ceiling of the West Wing.
“That’ll do for His Lordship.”
Barashkukor hustled the elderly hero forward.
A library-hush muted the noise of the Light delegates—Men, dwarves, elves, and halflings—shuffling onto their benches. Ashnak caught the eye of one elf, the marks of age shocking on his face, seated between the Mayor of Sarderis and a Snake Priest of Shazmanar. “Inquisitor Elinturanbar.”
“You do not belong on this side!” the long-dying elf hissed. “Come not near! We shall bring justice down on you one day soon.”
The races of Darkness—trolls, witches, necromancers, Undead, kobolds, and the rest—scrambled for places on the benches on the left-hand side. Ashnak’s hairy nostrils flared. At the centre of the front bench a figure slouched, its leather robe a patchwork of hands and limbs, eyes and lips, all tanned and sewn together with silver wire.
“Lord Necromancer,” Ashnak acknowledged, out of sheer habit.
Dirt and dried blood stiffened the nameless necromancer’s skin robe. What could be seen of his tusked face under the cowl had a greenish, decaying cast. He creaked.
“Ssscum!” the nameless hissed. “Traitor to thish side of the House. Do you think you can betray the Dark by letting the Bug-filth live and not yourself live to bitterly regret your mercy?”
“Ain’t you pissed you,” Ashnak grinned. “Nothing to do with missing the victory celebrations due to being dead, of course.”
“Bah!”
Light gleamed down from the Opticon’s dome onto the first World Parliament. The Dark delegates crowded each other unmercifully—whistling, throwing dung, hauling the books down from the shelves behind them, and reading the more dubious passages aloud.
“Call them to order!” Oderic, High Wizard of Ferenzia, demanded as Ashnak approached him.
Ashnak surveyed his grunts, who were mostly leaning up against the panelled seats and bumming pipe-weed from the delegates, and the Order of White Mages, who strode about in their Sun-ornamented surcoats attempting to reduce the chaos.
“No point,” Ashnak rumbled. “They’ll quieten down soon enough when—yo! There!”