“Why do the orcs any favours?”
“Or we could hire an army of mercenaries. There’s plenty of stray soldiers around.”
Will put his fists on his hips. “And we’re going to get them collected, organised, paid, and here in the next two hours, are we?”
“I’m not totally bereft of practical suggestions.”
Looking injured, Ned moved to the back of one of the wagons and, with some effort, unloaded a wooden chest. He thumped it down onto the snow-covered turf. The icy wind ruffled the curly hair on his feet.
“I knew we’d have to find a way past the besiegers into Nin-Edin, brother Will. So I made plans.”
Late-morning wind blasted out of the blue sky, cold enough to make even an orc shiver.
Ashnak stared out through the portcullis of Nin-Edin’s inner gate-house. The whole arch above his head was cracked, blocks hanging down precariously a yard lower on the southern side.
“Beg me for terms, then.” The elf removed his sallet helm, exposing aquiline brown features. He sneered down from his horse. “Is that not why you have summoned me? I have suffered a great loss here…I do you infinitely more honour than you deserve in speaking to you.”
Inside the taken bailey, warriors of the Light jeered, banging swords against shields. Ashnak scowled, estimating firepower, morale, magic…
He bared his fangs in a grin. “Better listen good, you pointy-eared asshole. Orcs ain’t the only personnel on the Nin-Edin Marine Base!”
He removed his clawed hands from behind his back, holding a female halfling up bodily above his head, gripping her by the shoulders of her crimson velvet gown. Her bare heels brushed futilely at his peaked ears as she kicked, and her flailing fingernails failed even to scratch his skin.
Amarynth Firehand gasped. “An innocent halfling!”
The forces of Good hissed. Ashnak let them have a good look and then lowered her to the earth in front of him, his talons resting on her diminutive shoulders. “This is a prisoner of war, Commander. Her safety depends solely upon your actions.”
“I… I don’t understand.”
Ashnak showed sharp, curved fangs. “I might hold a military tribunal and decide she’s not a prisoner of war. She might be a spy. Spies get gutted and eaten, or hung on hooks on the walls. Think about it, elf.”
The elven fighter-mage’s eyes brimmed with tears. For a moment there was only the huff of the unicorn’s breath, and the flapping of its indigo caparisons in the wind.
“We… No. No! We can never give in to blackmail. We cannot spare a whole fortress of evil for the sake of one innocent creature,” Amarynth Firehand stated proudly. “We shall kill you all—the Lady will know her own.”
Ashnak shrugged. “Then the halfling gets it.”
He began to tighten his hands, getting a solid grip on the small and muscular shoulders, preparing to rip the halfling’s arms from their sockets.
Faster even than orc-reflexes, nimble halfling fingers groped at the front of Ashnak’s combat trousers, undid the buttons, and slipped inside. A small hand gripped him firmly by the testicles. Sharp halfling nails pricked tender skin.
“On the other hand,” Ashnak hastily added, “I’m not in any way an unreasonable orc…”
The nails retracted fractionally.
Ashnak looked down. The female halfling stared absently out through the portcullis at the besieging army. Apparently resting back against her captor, both hands behind her back. A small hand grasped his member. Another pricked his balls. Ashnak very carefully loosened his grip on her shoulders, which rested against him at belt-buckle height. He swallowed hard.
“I’m always open to the concept of negotiations…”
Both hands kept a firm, chilly grip.
Barashkukor, behind him, gasped. “Sir, are you out of your mind, sir?”
Ashnak snarled dramatically at the elf. “I’m going to give you one last chance!”
“And I shall give you one hour to give her up. Then, orc, you shall pay for all your atrocities.” Outside the gate, the dark elf reined in his destrier and rode back down the hill.
The forces of Light began to mass, preparing to attack.
Small hands began most professionally to squeeze and stroke.
“Mmm…Major, I…ahhhm…” Ashnak’s hands fell to his sides. He muttered, “Stop it! That’s an order!” under his breath, and glanced back over his shoulder at Barashkukor.
“Delaying tactics, Major. We must…must buy time. Go and see if the scouts report anyone approaching. If we can hold out until the talismans arrive—urk!”
Ashnak coughed. Barashkukor and the other officers’ departing boots echoed under the gate arch. The cold wind ruffled the female halfling’s fur-short hair.
She leaned her body back against him, hands still hidden behind her, and the halfling and the orc stood under the arch, gazing out through the portcullis, unseeing of the warriors’ preparations, for quite some time.
A sudden silver trumpet rang a clarion call across the siegeworks of the Light.
“Monks would have been bad enough!” Will Brandiman whispered.
The road cut deeper into the defile as it approached Nin-Edin. The sun, overhead at midday, illuminated blackened slush and deep cart-ruts. The covered wagon jolted and rocked. He grabbed at Ned and the backboard to steady his balance.
“Patience, Sister. We must put up with discomfort to bring succour to poor sinners.” Ned whacked his cart-whip down on the mules’ quarters with unmaidenly strength. Will wondered momentarily if the skill was genetic.
“Maybe we should have fired the camp…” Will adjusted his gown, hiding his large, booted feet. The faded red homespun wool itched across his shoulders and under his arms. He tightened his burr-lined mortification belt. A Talisman of the Light lay heavy on his padded but still somewhat flat chest.
“I’m going on your judgement of his character.” Ned Brandiman ran a thumb around the edge of his wimple, making sure no coarse hair showed. “This is the only thing I can think of that will get us inside Nin-Edin.”
Will Brandiman stroked his beardless chin. A smear of rouge marked his hand when he lowered it, and he scrubbed it fiercely against his dress, staring all the while up at the broken fortress. The cart slowed, creaking uphill on the main road, and he began to hear the shouts and hammering of the besieging camp, the bawled orders, the clash of warriors scrambling into armour.
“If he’s that good a mage,” he said unhappily, “he’s going to know, isn’t he? And then what?”
“A good mage is not necessarily a clever mage—nor,” Ned observed sententiously, “better at looking under the surface than the next elf. You can always sing to him, sister. Elves like songs.”
Will rumbled under his breath as the heavily laden covered cart ground up between the tents and earthworks, a verse of which the first lines seemed to be There was a maid whose vast capacity / Was only equalled by her rapacity…He studied the faces of the thronging warriors they passed—elves with gilded bows. Men dressed in thonged leggings and carrying painted shields, dwarves with axes and hastily braided beards, a few halflings running errands for the cooks.
“That looks like the final attack. You’re right, brother. Sister, I mean. If anything’s to be done, it’s to be done now. And there he is.” Will squeezed Ned’s shoulder.
The cartwheels slipped on the shale as Ned reined the mules in. Will got down with restrained speed and picked his way between tent guy-ropes in Ned’s wake. Lord Commander Amarynth Firehand stood with a group of Men and dwarves in front of an over-embroidered and somewhat battered command tent and turned his dark aquiline face as the two halflings approached.