“Elinturanbar will question you,” The Named said. “He is my inquisitor. The deceptions of evil are many and legendary—forgive me that I choose to test you, as metal is tested in the forge, before I decide if you are tempered to become a sword of the Light.”
Nimble, Will’s hand darted for the needles sewn into his doublet’s tabs. Fast as he moved, the aging elf inquisitor stooped faster and caught his arms, twisting them bonecrackingly hard up behind his back.
Ned Brandiman took his hands out of the loose puffed-and-slashed sleeves of his doublet. Weighed down by the sheer bulk of metal, he nonetheless managed to brace both arms and hold out, muzzle wavering, the 1911 U.S. Army issue Colt .45 autoloading pistol.
The midday sun burned down from a cloudless sky. The orc marines, beetle-browed eyes staring to the front, pounded down the track away from Nin-Edin under four- and five-ton loads of rifles, grenade-launchers, machineguns, machine-pistols, antitank weapons, and innumerable belts of ammunition.
“Hut-two, hut-two!” Lieutenant Barashkukor stood with his hands on his hips, on the seat of his jeep. “Fucking elves could move that load faster. You want the major to see you?”
Three hundred pairs of orc boots pounded down the road away from Nin-Edin in unison, the column raising plumes of dust. Barashkukor drew a deep breath and bellowed at the passing rank and file of orc grunts. “Are you marines? Move!”
“Sir, yes sir!” Corporal Duranki shouted. His jaw set, he pounded on down the track. Like the others, the albino orc staggered under a backpack of weaponry three times his own height.
“Then move your fucking asses!” Barashkukor bellowed happily. “At the double, orcs!”
A metallic clash sounded.
Harsh, rhythmic; the noise of bells, horns, trumpets, drums, and a saxophone split the air. Nine of the smaller orc marines, stepping smartly, bashed out an impromptu military march. They were singing, Barashkukor noted, something to the effect of “From the halls of Japh-kanduma to the shores of Zithan-dri…”
Captain Zarkingu (Magic-Disposal, Administration, and Band Duties) marched past at the head of the band and the second column, skipping from side to side and tossing her skull-standard up in the air, macelike, in time to the music.
“See you at the Tower, L.t.!” Zarkingu yelled.
Barashkukor saluted. He sat down in the jeep’s back seat, tilting the GI pot back on his head and letting his long, hairless ears spring out from under it.
“Lieutenant Barashkukor!”
Barashkukor jumped up and came smartly to attention, snapping a crisp salute. “Sir, Major Ashnak, sir! We removed stores of weapons from the mountains, sir. Everything is being transported with the company, sir, including ammunition. The orcs are moving out as requested, sah!”
“Thank you, Barashkukor.” Ashnak gave a casual salute. “Your unit’s got flying experience with Hueys, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Barashkukor leapt out of the jeep. “That is…sir, no sir! Incapacitated by illness, sir. The Bell HU-1 Iroquois was disabled according to your orders, sir!”
Major Ashnak took the unlit roll of pipe-weed out of his tusked mouth and threw it down, grinding it under one polished combat boot. He tilted the urban camo forage cap back on his misshapen skull.
“There were at least two Hueys in Dagurashibanipal’s hoard, Lieutenant. Break out another one. Find a pilot and a marine with co-piloting experience and report back to me.”
Ashnak removed his forage cap and buckled on his GI-issue helmet, grinning toothily.
“I have my orders from Dark HQ, Lieutenant. I’ve got no choice.”
“I have no choice!”
The Named swings up into the saddle of the white warhorse, bright armour clashing. Her destrier lays its ears flat back against its skull. She effortlessly controls it.
“It is my fate to go to the Tower of Guthranc at the appointed time and use its power to summon the Army of Light to the Fields of Destruction. The time is now. The signal is mine alone to give!”
The sun colours her ugly grey-white face with the gold of dawn. Her breath curls in the summer’s-ending chill. Somewhere in Sarderis there is the scent of the sea.
“Follow my orders!” She wipes trailing saliva from the corner of her loose mouth. “This was prophecied for me when I was in my cradle, and I cannot avoid my destiny. I go now to Guthranc to sound the first war-summons to the Northern Kingdoms—I ride at dawn!”
A gold Harvest moon rose over the distant mountains. The wind felt cold on Ashnak’s face. He rested his back up against a trampled earth-bank smelling of cow-dung and machine-oil.
A scout orc slipped into the cover beside him. “Sir, nothing, sir.”
The orc’s commando knife dripped. Ashnak peered between the hedge’s thorn bushes towards the village by the river. It showed even to his eyes as blackness against blackness. No lights, no cock-crows, no hammers in the smithy. He smelled the scent of Man-blood on the air.
“Nothing left but the oldest and youngest of Men, and those were in hiding. All the smithies are empty, all the horseflesh gone.” She saluted. “No resistance, sir. We can take the columns through the river valley.”
Ashnak’s hide twitched in the night’s chill.
“This is a land waiting to be at war…Their warriors will be riding away to the great musters of the Light.” The wet earth soaked through his combats at knee and elbow. “Move ’em out, soldier.”
Ashnak rose and walked back from the advance post, radioing for Shazgurim and Zarkingu to move their companies out, and the night became a morass of small noises—muffled boots, the clink of weapons, a snarl, the buzz of a radio transmission. It went on interminably as he walked back, squad after squad of orcs trampling the earth as they passed him. The big Agaku bared his fangs with exhilaration.
The full moon loomed, silver now, patterns of the Dark visibly smirching its face.
Shapes shambled across the fields and resolved themselves into three of the fighting Agaku. The second company of marines began to pass Ashnak, and he saluted the ranking officer at its head. The moonlight cast his shadow heavy and sloping on the wet earth.
Others shadows joined it: squat Imhullu, hulking Shazgurim, and Zarkingu’s shadow skipping from foot to foot.
“The artillery are in position!” Zarkingu unfurled a scroll of paper, spreading it out. Her eyes and fangs gleamed in the moonlight. Ashnak and his sub-commanders squatted to study the map.
“This is the Tower of Guthranc. That’s cultivated land. This is the edge of the forest, here, and this is the main road from Sarderis.” Ashnak pointed.
Imhullu untied the camouflage-neckerchief from his brow, wiped his weeping empty eye-socket, and replaced the cloth. The squat orc punched Ashnak’s bandoleer-covered chest. “Nine platoons—we’re taking three whole companies in. Practically a small battalion. Against what, less than a hundred of the Man-filth? Armed with swords and bows…?”
“Seven to one,” Ashnak said. “Reasonable odds.”
“They’ll have a few spells. Some damned magic-user or other.” Shazgurim squatted, forearms resting on horny knees, her helmet off—watching the third column begin to pass them. “But, bullets baffle bullshit. We’ve got these hard bastards at our backs—no horse-buggering Man is going to kick our asses!”
“Brief your squad leaders. It’s essential we target the mages, if there are any. Take them out.” Ashnak took the map and rolled it up. “We can’t stop them starting to spellcast—but sorcery will be no defence against these weapons. We’ll take a few casualties while we’re wasting the mages, but at acceptable casualty levels.”