“Erm.” Barashkukor spoke sotto voce. “Isn’t that Ned Brandiman carrying her train? Sir, I mean Edvard van Nassau, sir.”
Asknak nodded his great tusked head ponderously. “Yes, Major. That’s him.”
“Is that what he does, sir?”
Ashnak sighed. “I don’t think it’s all he does. Scroop mentioned something about him building a fireworks display for the celebrations afterwards…”
Magda walked sedately forward between lines of orc marines and the burghers of Graagryk, all of them cheering so loudly that the music of the organ was drowned out. A veil of white lace and diamonds covered her delicate face, flowing back over her hair that today was long and blonde and curly. Plain white silk cupped her small breasts, hugged her narrow hips, and foamed in lace and frills around her tiny white-booted feet. Ashnak recognised Archipelago mulberry silk, the purchase of a single bolt of which can beggar a ducal household.
A shaven-headed halfling priest walked out onto the steps before the altar, his purple robe sweeping the marble. “People of Graagryk! Merchants, militia, and great duchess! We are gathered together at this Yuletide Solstice to perform a solemn ceremony…”
Out of the side of his wide mouth Ashnak muttered, “Ought I to be doing his?”
Barashkukor patted his elbow in a fatherly manner. “Yes, sir, you should, sir. Think of how popular it’s going to make you. And the rest of us. And besides, sir, she’s…”
Ashnak’s heavy brows lowered. “Yes, Major?”
The small orc spread his hands widely. “The boys love her, sir. She’s—erm—been like a mother to us.”
Ashnak had no more time to speak. Magda Brandiman arrived at his side, her trainbearer in her wake, and the great cathedral full of orcs, citizens, vagabonds, burghers, deserters, merchants, and mercenaries became hushed. He looked down, and further down, and gazed at the bright blue eyes he could see through the thin veil.
Magda Brandiman winked.
The priest cleared his throat. “Who giveth away this halfling?”
Will Brandiman took his mother’s arm. Spruce, clean, scrubbed and polished, his greying black hair newly cut and his doublet and hose banished in favour of viridian silk coat and breeches, he still bore the traces of his beating. He regarded the large orc marine with a look that plainly denoted neither forgiveness nor finished business. “I do.”
Wilhelm van Nassau looked for a moment at the manicured, muscular hand in his; glanced up at Ashnak, and somewhat unceremoniously shoved his mother’s appendage at the orc. Ashnak took the small, hot hand in his own. His granite fist enclosed it entirely.
The priest coughed and adjusted his half-moon spectacles. “We are gathered here on this auspicious occasion to join together in matrimony this orc and this halfling. If anyone knows of any reason why this marriage should not happen, let them speak now, or forever remain silent.”
Ashnak glanced over his broad shoulder. The church was silent enough to hear a sergeant’s stripes drop. Ranked orc marines looked back at him, quite a number grinning rather more broadly than he appreciated.
The priest’s voice echoed sonorously:
“Do you, Ashnak of the Horde of Darkness, General Officer Commanding the Orc Marines, betrothed of the Duchess of this great city of Graagryk, take the halfling Magdelene Amaryllis Judith Brechie van Nassau to be your lawful wedded spouse?”
Ashnak looked huntedly from side to side. The bride’s trainbearer chuckled in an unexpected baritone. Will Brandiman folded his arms; rather more purses at his belt than could be accounted for by his changing into the dress of a Graagryk prince.
Major Barashkukor, starry-eyed, nudged his commanding officer in the ribs. “Sir!”
“I suppose so,” Ashnak rumbled.
“Do you, Magdelene Amaryllis Judith Brechie van Nassau, Duchess of Graagryk, hereditary Holder of the Golden Cobble, Six Hundred and Seventh Admiral of the Inland Sea, take this—this orc marine to be your lawfully wedded consort?”
“I’ll think about it,” Magda said. “Oh, all right then.”
“I hereby pronounce you heir and consort, orc-husband and halfling-wife,” the priest finished, “and may the Lady have mercy on your souls!”
With a curious delicacy Ashnak fitted the ring to the halfling’s largest finger. Scant seconds later, it seemed to him, he stood in the snow and trodden slush outside Graagryk’s cathedral. The press of the crowd prevented him from moving forward.
“Well, my love, we—”
Bells drowned out his words.
Wild in the snowy air, shaking ice down from the cathedral’s gargoyles, the deep bells clanged out across the city. The citizen militia, in velvet and lace, brandished their halberds, leaning back in a cordon against the front rank of the crowd as the cathedral doors were thrown wide open.
“What?” Magda bawled.
“We may have lost—I SAID WE MAY HAVE LOST—”
Magda waved him to silence in the clangour of the bells. A dozen squads of orc marines clumped out at the double into the snow, shouting, cheering, and throwing snowballs. Company Sergeant Varimnak, her black leather uniform dark against the whiteness, bellowed orders.
The orc marines formed two smart lines leading out from the cathedral’s entrance, unslung their AK47s, and on command let off a blast of automatic fire over the heads of the crowd. Halflings, Men, and the few elves present screamed, ducking. The orcs bellowed with laughter and fired the next volley lower.
“Marines, ten-HUT!”
Ninety booted feet slammed into the snow as the honour guard came to attention. The orc marines nearest the cathedral doors held up an arch of poleaxes, warhammers, and M60s.
“Here we go.” The halfling squeezed his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. Ashnak looked down at her and grinned.
“Yo!” He scooped her up, long-trained wedding dress and all, and sat her firmly on his shoulders. The female halfling, resplendent in white satin, silk, and lace, turned her unveiled face up to the bright blue sky. She kicked her legs free of the skirts, her booted feet resting on his barrel chest; snatched off his peaked cap and waved it joyously at the crowd.
Major Barashkukor inflated his small chest and bellowed, “Three cheers for Duke Ashnak and Duchess Magda! Hip, hip—”
“HOORAY!”
TAKKA-TAKKA-TAKKA-FOOM!
A volley of automatic fire ricocheted off the cathedral frontage. Stone chips spanged, and a gargoyle toppled over and fell with a dull thud into a snowdrift. Orc marines, drinking from water bottles that patently obviously did not contain water, began to sing raucously and fire at random. Major Barashkukor beamed at them tearfully.
“I do so love a wedding,” he observed.
Magda Brandiman wriggled, sitting on Ashnak’s shoulder, and threw her bouquet of winter blossoms into the crowd. A stocky figure in pink silk straight-armed a burgher out of the way, snatched the bouquet out of the air, and in a gruff voice bellowed, “Me next!”
“Your stepsons,” Magda said demurely, “they really do need a father’s hand…”
“Stepsons!” Ashnak groaned.
Magda reached down a hand upon which the veins were beginning to stand out. She took Ashnak’s horny hand in her own. Her ring caught fire from the sun. He slitted tilted eyes against the light, and his talons spiked her expensive silk bodice, drawing her down to where he could plant a kiss squarely on her mouth.