The T54 dropped bodily by six feet. The black waters of the Faex washed around its treads, suspended on the last few pilings of the collapsing dock.
“Well, sir,” the orc continued obliviously, looking up at Ashnak, “after that it was my duty as a marine to escape, so I let them prod me about a bit, and then when they lost interest—well, I think it was more like, put me on one side for lunch—I cammo’d myself up and hid in the desert. Tell you the truth, sir, I don’t think they can smell very well, and they don’t have magic, so they didn’t find me. I made my way back to Gyzrathrani. Couldn’t get through on the comlink, and the Gyzrathrani weren’t being very cooperative, so I told them their OT64 needed a test-drive…”
Ashnak leaned over the barge rail, looking down.
“That is not an OT64 armoured personnel carrier.”
“No, sir. Beg to report, the OT64 broke down seventy miles north of Gyzrathrani. I commandeered another vehicle.” The small orc major coloured. “A camel, sir, I believe they call it. Nasty spitting creature. That got me as far as the edge of the Endless Desert. Damn things don’t taste like much either, sir. Then I ran into a contingent of Gargoyle Marines and got their airborne tactical wing to bring me as far north as Aztechia. Couldn’t reach you on the com, sir, the radio operators didn’t seem to believe who I was. So I borrowed a despatch rider’s motorcycle.”
Barashkukor felt in the ragged combat jacket’s pockets.
“Think I’ve still got his despatches on me somewhere, sir. That broke down two hundred miles back, near the High Ranges. Well, sir, the garrison there still wouldn’t put me through to you—said I had to be an imposter, or some sort of monster.”
The small orc looked hurt.
“Not my fault if the Bugs put me back together with metal. It works, sir. Well. Most of the time.”
A fresh wind swept across the estuary of the Faex River, bringing the homely scent of vampire-bird dung, ogre cooking fires, and sweating orcs. Ashnak raised one beetling eyebrow.
“I’m a reasonable orc, Barashkukor. I just know there’s a good reason why you turn up here in one of my tanks and trash it beyond repair. I just know it. So tell your old general—you ‘borrowed’ the tank from the High Ranges?”
Barashkukor saluted again, catching his ear with the steel fingers of his right hand, and wincing at the pain.
“Not exactly, sir. I borrowed a Cobra helicopter gunship from the High Ranges. But you know how I am about flying, General. It sort of…it…it developed a severely reduced flight potential.”
“It crashed.” Ashnak covered his eyes with his free hand. He thoughtfully weighed the pistol he still held. “And then you took a tank.”
“No sir.” Barashkukor swallowed audibly. “Then I commandeered a military Hovercraft, sir, to come up the coast of the Western Ocean to Port Mirandus. It, er, sank, sir. I didn’t do anything to it, sir, honest! I think those machines have a design fault.”
“How far did you get, marine?”
“Lalgrenda, sir.”
“Then the tank?”
“No sir. Another APC from Lalgrenda to Kaanistad. The engine burned out on that one. Then I borrowed a staff car. That was fine.” Barashkukor’s eye gleamed, and his socketed lens whirred. “Rolls Royce Silver Shadow with armoured chassis, sir. Sweet as a nut. Drove like a dream.”
“That,” Ashnak pointed at the T54 Main Battle Tank, the water now lapping halfway up its filth-crusted sides, “is not a staff car.”
Barashkukor rested one gloved and one steel hand down on the rim of the hatch. He regarded the tank thoughtfully.
“Not a staff car, sir, no, sir. The Fourteenth Armoured Troll Division at Vendivil wouldn’t believe my identity either, sir, so they shelled the staff car. I got out all right, though. That was when I decided I needed armoured capability to get to you, General Ashnak, sir, so that’s when I commandeered this tank from their motor pool. Unofficially. I did leave a chitty.”
The small orc took a deep breath, and coughed, immediately regretting it. The River Faex, as the hot sun warmed it, began to hum.
“Lots of essential information for you, sir, about the Bugs, sir! That’s why I had to get back to you, General.” Barashkukor drew himself up, standing waist-deep in the hull hatch of the sinking T54, his single eye fixed on Ashnak and glowing with hero-worship. “Sir, did I show enough initiative, sir?”
The T54 Main Battle Tank lurched and settled deeper into the greasy water.
“I did my best, sir,” the orc major protested.
Ashnak carefully thumbed down the hammer and replaced his pistol in his belt holster. He braced both hands on the rail of the barge and leaned over.
“Abandon armoured submersible!”
“Sir, yes sir!” The small orc clambered up out of the hatch.
Ragged brown desert-camouflaged combat trousers clung to his skinny leg, rolled up at one ankle. He wore only one combat boot. His other leg, from thigh to foot, shone brightly in the sun. Ashnak stared at the steel bones, tendons, pulleys, and plates.
“I’ll be right—” whirrr-click! “right with you, General Ashnak, sir!”
The small orc hitched himself out of the hatch, skinny buttocks pointing at the sky, then straightened up, picked up his helmet and crammed it down over his long ears, walked across the casing of the T54 as the tank shuddered, juddered, and—among the scream of splintering timber—sank beneath the surface of the river. Barashkukor flexed his small legs and sprang.
His normal orc-leg pushed feebly. Barashkukor’s cyborg-leg, Ashnak noted with some interest, flexed and sprang with vicious speed.
The small orc shot up and sideways.
“HEEAAARGGGH!”
Barashkukor smacked into the side of the barge two feet below Ashnak. The large orc reached down, seized the small orc marine officer by the seat of his combat trousers, and dragged him up and over the rail. He dropped Barashkukor on the deck.
“Salute when you see an officer!” Ashnak roared.
Barashkukor’s helmet rolled in small circles on the deck of the barge. The small orc’s ears flattened in the blast. Hurriedly, whirring and clicking the while, Barashkukor got to his feet, made a vain attempt to smarten his uniform and combat boot, and directed a salute in the general direction of Ashnak. “Sir!”
The cyborg-orc wavered dizzily as he stood upright.
Biotechnician Ugarit wiped his hands down his white lab coat and edged closer, eyes gleaming as he studied the metal leg, hand, and eye of the orc officer. “May I, General? May I have him? Please, may I?”
“Sir!” Barashkukor’s right eye whirred, focussing. He edged away from the skinny orc technician.
“Well, well, well…” Ashnak reached down, purring.
The large orc hooked a talon in the back of Barashkukor’s collar, hoisting him three feet into the air. He dangled the small orc in the hot southern air, turned him from side to side, inspected him above and below, held him out at arm’s length, and dropped him back on the deck.
Unable to prevent himself, Ashnak showed all his fangs and brass-capped tusks in a beam.
“Welcome aboard, Barashkukor! Welcome back! Between the Dark Lord and the Bugs—you got here just in time for the fun.”
Northeast of Port Mirandus, far up the River Faex, the great Royal Hall of Ferenzia was packed, mostly with Men, which meant every elbow was at face-height, and Will Brandiman twice nearly lost an eye to an unguarded rapier-hilt. He shouldered his way through mail-clad hips, tassets, the tops of high boots, and the horned helmets of a party of dwarves.