“Dark Master.” The big orc knelt formally. “The Royal Assembly of Ferenzia hears you.”
The four orcs with Her knelt, covering the crowd.
Formless Darkness coalesced in Her eyes. The tall, straight young woman raised Her head. A dryness, as of ancient dust, caught in the throats of Men, and those nearest Her grew age-lines in their faces that they never, from that day forwards, lost.
She rested Her hands, lightly, on the shoulders of two armed, kneeling orcs. The assembled nobility of the Light shaded their eyes from Her darkness. Her voice spoke into the silence.
“You thought you had defeated Me at the Fields of Destruction. Poor warriors! Poor mages! Instead you have made Me more strong. For I have died and lived, and what is more strong than that which can overcome death? You think that you have the world in your hands, after that battle. You think the Ages of the World have turned.”
Now laughter, so quiet that Oderic shuddered. To win so great a victory against such hopeless odds, with such sacrifice, and now to see it all to do again…In the crowd, Men wept.
“If I wish, I am strong enough to take the world from you. If I wish, there will be a battle that is truly the last, for after it no Man, no beast, no blade of grass will stir on this unbreathing world. If I wish, I can still the heart in your breast and the breath in your body, merely by My wishing it. If I wish.”
Oderic swayed. Of the heroes of the Light assembled together in the halls of Ferenzia, only he remained on his feet. Sweat rolled down his old Man’s face.
“It was not meant that you should come here and throw this filth in our faces,” the wizard snapped. His bony hand fluttered at his throat and his lips turned blue.
“Was it not?” The Dark Lord seemed unmoved. “But I do not wish to destroy the world in gaining it. It will be more entertaining for Me if it is whole. And therefore…I will step down into the world and compete with you all, upon your terms, in equal contest for election to the Throne of the World.”
Oderic, in the silence that followed, could feel the puzzlement of four hundred and fifty Men.
“‘Election’?” The High Wizard got his breath. “That heresy! I might have expected that from the Lord of Darkness! Who can You say is qualified to elect a candidate to the Throne of the World?”
The Dark Lord, an ancient smile on Her lips, merely inclined Her head slightly. Her big orc got to his feet. Fists on hips, he grinned at Oderic.
“Who qualifies? The same ‘who’ that would have fought at the next Last Battle, that’s who! That means everybody, sucker. Everybody from Men to elves; from hill-giants to halflings!”
The wizard stared testily at the orc.
“Some of my best friends are halflings,” Oderic said, appalled beyond belief, “but really: no. If you once allow halflings—good people though they may be—a say in the councils of the wise, then the next thing you know, we’ll be asked to consult trolls, witches, werewolves…Lady save us, even orcs and necromancers! It just won’t do, I say.”
The halfling servants paused in mopping the tiles, looked at each other, and murmured, “‘E’s right, you know, that there wizard. We know our place, see if we don’t.”
Oderic finished, “We can never agree to it! You’re mad!”
“I ain’t mad.” The orc switched the pipe-weed cigar to the other corner of his tusked mouth and blew a lopsided smoke-ring. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m mad. Okay, you guys, listen up! You heard the Dark Lord. That’s the way it’s going to be!”
Oderic lifted his head, white hair flowing back over his tweed collar. He caught the eye of others in the crowd—the Lords of Goistan, Lalgrenda, and Istan; Shugbar, Vendivil, Kaanistad, and Hurost. Old companions, who had been carefree soldiers of fortune or wandering mages and who now ruled the estates they had been rewarded with in Ferenzia. Their waists were thickening, they might be more intent on politics now than on drinking or questing, but he saw agreement in their eyes.
“I suppose it was already too late for us,” Oderic said, “when You survived Samhain. I am an old and foolish man, and I should have guessed. I failed. But this remains to me—I will die before I obey one order of the Dark Lord! I speak for every Man here. We can yet go into the afterlife with honour. Do Your worst!”
Cheers rang in the shattered room. Those few Men who had got to the weapons in the cloakroom clashed spear against shield and loosened their tight evening collars.
The Dark Lord’s long-lashed eyelids lifted. Her eyes glowed orange. The hall quieted. Wrapped in a pride as cold as the tiles upon which Corinna Halfelven had died, the Dark Lord of the East regarded Her ancient foes. Oderic saw that She would no longer condescend to explain, much less beg.
“Gentlemen…” The orc, Ashnak, stepped a few paces closer to the crowd. He put his short metal stick in a holster on his belt, and stretched out his open hands.
The sight of an orc willingly disarming itself, rather than bloodily flinging itself into the defenceless crowd, axe-blade swinging, got the attention of the assembled dignitaries, ambassadors, and ministers.
“Gentlemen. Ladies. I know I am an orc,” he said gruffly, “but I appeal to you to hear me. Most of you may already know—we have another enemy on our borders. A terrible enemy. We must unite to fight! We’re facing a geopolitical conflict that makes nonsense of distinctions between Light and Dark. I assure you, gentlemen, we’re all on the same side now.”
A babble of curiosity rose in the Assembly Hall. The orc field marshal reached up, pulled off his helmet, and scratched at his ears. Seeming curiously unprotected, standing between the nobility of Ferenzia and the silent Dark Lord, the orc spoke again.
“I am a plain soldier,” Ashnak said, “and I have always respected the Light as a brave opponent. Now we face a force which is vicious, unstoppable, and vile. Men of the Light, your virtues are well known. Trust me when I say they’ll slow you down and weaken you in the face of an enemy who doesn’t know what mercy or kindness means.”
“What enemy?” a Ferenzi lord demanded.
The hall full of Men in evening dress clutched at their hastily recovered weapons and pressed forward in shouting groups. Orc warriors lowered their fire-sticks. The big orc struck one warrior’s fire-stick up to point at the chandeliers.
“This enemy!” The big orc felt in a large pouch attached to his jacket. He lifted something out, raised his arm, and threw it down on the floor. It cracked. People flinched away, then crowded near.
“Recognise that?” The orc bared brass-capped tusks. “Lost any outlying settlements recently?” Mysterious disappearances? Parties of adventurers gone missing?”
Oderic hitched up the knees of his tweed trousers before squatting to see exactly what was encased in the transparent envelope the orc had thrown down. When he recognised the chitinous fragments, he had to use his staff purely as a stick to help him rise.
“The…the Black Claw! It is a true token,” the High Wizard admitted brokenly. “The Light’s mages have been secretly combating this menace for days. But we are not of sufficient strength to defeat it!”
The orc grinned.
“If you good guys can’t handle it, then let us badass orc bastards do it for you! If you elect my Dark Master as War Leader—purely for the duration of this emergency—then I can mobilise the entire forces of the orc marines, elite corps and reserves, on your side. Without a War Leader, you’ll fall into confusion, quarrel among yourselves, while these monsters ravage your homes. We must have this election, and we must have it soon!”