Ashnak yawned widely, exposing yellowing fangs and brass-capped tusks to the sun, and belched. A lizard scuttled past. The orc trapped its tail under his combat boot, popped the lizard in his mouth, and chewed contentedly.
“…and under My government, as I am committed to the principle of a multi-ethnic society, I shall ensure that all of us—serpent-people, orcs, liches, witches, and enchanters—live together in unity and prosperity…”
Someone at the back booed.
“Watch the crowd. Single out the obvious troublemakers, Chahkamnit,” Ashnak directed. “You’ll be bringing them to me for interrogation.”
“…and in conclusion, may I add this. We face the greatest peril of this world’s age. We all face an enemy whom even Darkness may, without prejudice, admit to fear. But, who is better able to deal with vileness than the Evil Empire? I say again: if elected, I will pursue with all speed the eradication of this dreadful force from the earth…”
Ashnak ground out his cigar. “Stand by to see Herself back to the Apache, Lieutenant. I’ll handle the rest of this.”
He prostrated himself in front of the Dark Lord as She passed, shrouded again in impenetrable Darkness and bad temper. A bell-like voice addressed him from the murk.
“Tell Me, My orc, is this something I cannot do? When I harangued the Horde in days gone by, they cheered Me loyally to the echo. Where is My error?”
Ashnak refrained from pointing out the Horde of Darkness’s susceptibility to Dark magic (at least at the humble foot soldier’s level) and the general inadvisability of appearing unenthusiastic whilst in the Dark Lord’s Blasted Redoubt of the East.
“It’s only because they’re not used to You, Dread Lord,” the orc general said. “They’re overawed.”
“Ah. Yes. That must be it.”
The nameless necromancer cradled his baby-orc-skull wine-cup, trailing in the Darkness’s wake. From the dark of his hood, his voice slurred, “Perchance it’sh your orcsh, Dread Lord. They do have a negative public image.”
“Yes,” the voice of the Dark Lord mused. “I am disappointed in you, orc. I should not have made you My field marshal. You may consider yourself returned to the rank of general.”
“Ma’am.” Ashnak and the nameless glared at each other.
“Come!”
The Dark Lord departed. Allowing some minutes for the usual turmoil to subside, Ashnak shambled back up onto the temple steps.
“Awriiight! Now listen up, people of Shazmanar. You all know how this here ‘election’ works. Yesterday you saw the Light. Now you’ve seen the Dark. Now you’re gonna vote. And you’re gonna do it right. Ain’tcha? Okay, Lieutenant, get ’em into lines.”
The afternoon sun beat down on Shazmanar’s candy-twist architecture and flowing palm trees. The serpent-people in their mail groin-coverings hissed as orc marines, assault rifles slung over their brawny shoulders, herded them into long columns that wavered across the square. A squad of grunts scurried about with cardboard boxes full of mimeographed sheets, handing them out by the fistful.
“This,” Ashnak waved a specimen sheet of paper above his head, “is called a ballot form. It has ‘Light’ and ‘Dark’ written on it. You make your mark beside whichever one you want to vote for. If you cannot read, my orcs will assist you. Then you put the paper through the slots in these sealed boxes here. Then we count ’em up. Everybody got that?”
Ashnak strode down the steps into the square, elbowing his way to the marines guarding the ballot boxes. Lieutenant Chahkamnit sat with a carton of ballot forms beside him, marking the ‘Dark Lord’ box on each, and stuffing them into the sealed boxes.
“Well done,” the orc general remarked. He shot out a muscular arm, stopping a serpent-man from approaching the sealed box, and plucked the ballot paper out of the startled Shazmanarian’s hand.
“Isss meant to be a ssssecret ballot!” the snake-Man protested.
Ashnak unfolded the paper, furrowing his brow as he read it. “‘The candidate I wish to elect is the Light candidate’…”
The orc shot out a hand, caught the serpent-Man around the throat, lifted him bodily, and threw him over the heads of the crowd. There was a trailing sibilant scream and a thud.
“Wrong!” Ashnak reproved the Shazmanarian as the serpent-Man clawed his way upright. “Now try again, you sorry mother, and this time get it right.”
The crowd hissed and muttered. From somewhere there came the snk! of a bolt-action rifle. As one, the Shazmanarians shuffled forward to the ballot boxes.
Under the gleaming eye of Ashnak, general officer commanding the orc marines, the city of Shazmanar proceeded to record their votes for the Grand Election to the Throne of the World.
6
The further southeast from the kingdoms, the more the roads thin out and eventually vanish altogether. Until, half a continent away from the Inland Sea, the elven rainforests of Thyrion swelter under an equatorial sun.
In the back of the speeding river assault craft, Marine Elendylis Goldenfire abandoned the stately plucking of her harp and gave out with three wailing chord progressions. Marine Illurian Swiftbow cut in with a backbeat, and added a hard-driving guitar riff. The elven music began to motor as the assault craft rocked crazily from side to side on the foaming brown water.
“Move your ass, L.t.!” Gunnery Sergeant Dakashnit bawled over the noise. “Gear up! What’s the matter with you elves? Do you wanna live forever?”
“Funny you should say that,” Lieutenant Gilmuriel Hunt-Lord remarked.
Starlight Squad, last of Gilmuriel’s platoon to hit a dropzone, and the command group he had chosen to go in with, sprawled among heaps of equipment in the body of the assault craft and exchanged laconic backchat as they geared up. Beads and bangles ornamented the elf marines’ combat fatigues, dulled with hard wear, muddy and worn. Marines Dyraddin Treewaker and Belluriel Starharp wore ragged silk scarves as headbands, and marines Goldenfire and Swiftbow had adopted round wire-rimmed smoked glasses. A curious sigil—a circle with a stylised three-toed bird’s claw imprinted on it—had been stencilled on their helmet covers. Corporal Silthanis Blackrose smoked a roll of Dakashnit’s pipe-weed.
“You’ve certainly made these elves into marines, Sergeant,” Gilmuriel sighed in very reluctant admiration. He tipped his helmet back and scratched his pointed ears. “Now—HQ says no chance of reinforcements for at least five days.”
“We ain’t gonna get no help till the election’s over.” Dakashnit straightened up and shook foam from her straight razor, having shaved her crest down to a regulation marine crewcut. She emptied the soapy water from her helmet into the river. The orc then relieved herself in the helmet, tipped it over the side of the boat again, and emptied her pack of combat rations into it. Chewing, she added, “L.t., we’re always getting fucked by the politicians.”
The hulking orc grunt piloting the speeding boat muttered, “Squeakies! Ain’t no fucking use as marines! It’s us orcs has to do the job.”
With heavy sarcasm, Gilmuriel fluted, “I suppose a few hundred orcs are enough to hold back the Bugs’ advance.”
The grunt said proudly, “We’re cadre troops. The marines’ finest. Okay, so we ain’t here in force—just call us the thin green line.”
Dakashnit leaned over. “Marines, these may be squeakies—but they’re my squeakies. Let’s hear some respect.”
“Uh, yessir, Sergeant, ma’am!” The orc steered the powerful boat in towards the bank. “Here’s your drop point.”