“Orc Ashnak, you will not defy Me!”
Ashnak’s breathing slowed. His granite-coloured hide rippled, blood-gorged muscles relaxing. He dropped his taloned fists back in front of him. “Ma’am—I’m thinking of my orcs. The nameless necromancer has no experience of marine combat! He’ll get my boys killed.”
The nameless necromancer sprayed spittle across the Dark Pavilion. “What are orcsh for? Battle-fodder! You have been acting above your station for too long now!”
The Dark Lord said, “Mage Oderic of Ferenzia, you see that I am willing to commit My servant Ashnak here to the Light’s trial.”
The wizard looked up from searching through the pockets of his tweed robe for pipe-weed. “High King Magorian has decided to appoint my humble self as the judge. I have the trial scheduled for the fifth day after New Moon. That’s ten days from now.”
The nameless necromancer spoke from the darkness of his cowl. “That is not accsheptible, mage of the Light. The trial must take plasch now, before the electshion to the Throne of the World. My Mishtressh the Dark Lord demandsh it—as your War Leader.”
Just so there should be no mistaking the intention, the nameless necromancer paused for an obligatory two heartbeats before adding, “The marinesh are not yet fully mobilished. It would be unfortunate if they were not available to use againsht the invaders.”
Ashnak caught the featureless orange eye of the Dark Lord with a look that spoke volumes, mostly about the nameless necromancer’s failing acquaintance with subtlety.
“Hold the trial tomorrow,” the Dark Lord suggested.
“Ah, very well. If you insist.” The wizard conjured up, with a flick of yellow-stained fingers, pipe-weed and a burning match. He lit his pipe. “Shall we say th—hkkk! hkkkhkkkk! kah!—the Hall of Justice, at ten?”
Ashnak, who had no doubts whatsoever about the Light’s verdict, rehearsed a number of possibilities and reluctantly dismissed physical mayhem. He allowed his massive shoulders to slump. “Am I to be held in military custody, then, Ma’ am?”
“And have the marines report your unfortunate escape? I think not—” The Lord of Night and Silence halted, Her delicate head tilted to one side as if listening. “Let them enter.”
The flap of the Night Pavilion was drawn back again by braided silver cords. The wind brought Ashnak the scent of troll-flesh and metal from the door guards, overlain by a pervasive corruption, and a very familiar smell of halfling.
Magda Brandiman marched across the fur pelts and lifted an armful of broadsheets up onto the stone table. “Latest election edition of Warrior of Fortune, Dark Lady. Hot off the presses. I also have some information too recent to have made the news.”
For some reason that Ashnak could not fathom, the Dark Lord and the female halfling glared at each other for a moment in silence. Magda’s fur-short hair slicked up like a cat’s under the electricity. The Dark Lord leaned back, pale hair and shadowed face framed by her black robes.
“We were not aware of your interest in broadsheets.”
“Graagryk had need of a new sheet with inter-kingdom circulation,” the duchess said, “so I made it my business to acquire one. It is a recent purchase.”
The halfling had the appearance of having come from a social function to the press room, before coming to the Dark Pavilion. Her arms were ink-smudged below the sleeves of her black gown, and her diamond tiara had been shoved back to make room for a green eyeshade.
“And this is one of my sources in the military,” Magda said crisply. “Lieutenant Lugashaldim of Covert Intelligence Actions.”
The Undead orc wore dark glasses, a black beret on one side of his flesh-stripped skull, and a sleeveless black vest apparently made up entirely of pouches and pockets. “Dark Lord, Ma’am! General Ashnak, sir!”
“I won’t intrude on your private conversations.” The white wizard Oderic eased himself up out of his seat with palpable reluctance.
The Dark Lord said, “We have nothing to hide in this matter. Duchess of Graagryk, you may speak.”
“Lugashaldim,” the halfling prompted. Magda stood on one leg, momentarily leaning her hand against Ashnak’s hip for balance, and scratched the sole of her hairy foot. Her other hand, resting against his skin, made the fingerspeech movements for:
—Watch. Wait.
“Lieutenant Lugashaldim, you may regard this as a debrief,” Ashnak said.
“Very well, sir.” The Special Undead Services orc put the heels of his rotting boots together. “It recently came to the attention of the CIA that a smear campaign was being conducted against the general during the present election. We have thoroughly investigated this, and I can now announce that there is no foundation in it whatsoever.”
High Wizard Oderic grunted sarcastically. “And the evidence, foul Undead creature? What of that?”
Lugashaldim’s gaze remained firmly fixed on the Dark Lord. “Ma’am, the Light candidate Amarynth has no substantial evidence against General Ashnak—the supposed written confession of the witness Kyrial cannot be found. The Man-child herself has vanished. As for the halfling Meadowsweet and his family, they or their inheritors can’t be traced either. Lord Amarynth has no one willing to come forward and testify, Ma’am.”
Ashnak, having a reasonable idea as to why no written evidence could be found, and where the witnesses might have gone, smirked.
“But there is the noble elf, Perdita del Verro,” Oderic protested.
“Regrettably,” Magda Brandiman said, “as I discovered upon Graagryk’s purchase of Warrior of Fortune, the previous owners seem to have sent Mistress del Verro to cover the bush wars in the Drowned Lands, five thousand miles to the west. Even more regrettably, we can’t contact her while she’s on board ship for the two-year voyage. She could be anywhere on the Western Ocean. I fear she will not be able to return in time for the trial.”
“How regrettable,” the Dark Lord remarked drily.
Ashnak picked his nose to cover a broad grin.
“But,” the Dark Lord added, “I’m afraid I cannot expect the Light to take our word for lack of evidence.”
Magda’s hand slid into Ashnak’s, gripping his gnarled fingers. He looked down at the top of her head and pulled her close for a moment. Between their bodies her fingers moved again:
—Don’t give up hope!
“You still agree to a trial, then?” Oderic sounded surprised.
The Lord of Dead Aeons closed Her long lashes over Her glowing eyes, sitting as still as any effigy in the Halls of Those Who Sleep.
The nameless necromancer’s hood turned towards Oderic. “What She has said, sho let it be!”
“Well, well. Goodness me.” Oderic, still standing, blew a succession of smoke-rings, each a further degree of colour up the spectrum than the last. “I’ll inform the jury of the new time for the trial. No, no, don’t bother to see me out. I know my own way.”
After the guttural challenge of the troll guard ceased, the nameless necromancer spoke again, hobbling away from the stone table. “Lich orc, you are now under my command. You will come with me and tell me all you know. Your Grace of Graagryk, good night.”
The necromancer held up the tent flap pointedly. Magda dropped a very formal curtsey to Dark Lord and walked out without a backward look. Lugashaldim, after glancing at Ashnak for guidance, followed her.
“And take off that shilly talishman!” The nameless pointed at the marine-issue dogtag slung around Ashnak’s bull neck. “Dark Lord, I shall return for the orc prishoner in just one moment.”