Ashnak thoughtfully tested the chains between his wrist fetters. The metal groaned. Troll Irregulars are stronger than common orcs, though not stronger than great orcs. The Royal Quarter of Ferenzia is not that far from the military encampment of the orc marines.
“I would find you,” a voice whispered, dry as the husks of dead bees. Lashes lifted and the Dark Lord once again watched from Her great basalt throne.
Nor is it far from the Dark Pavilion to the orc marine camp where the retributive powers of the Lord of Night and Silence are concerned.
“Since I have consented to play this game, I will not lose it now. If it is My pleasure that you be sacrificed to make My name good in the eyes of fools, then so be it. You are Mine, little orc.”
The black robes rustled like leaves, and a pale hand upon which the sword calluses were long healed reached out.
Ashnak by tensing his muscles snapped the fetters around his wrists. He reached up and broke the chain of the marine-issue dogtag, and dropped the nullity talisman onto the stone table before Her implacable gaze.
The same night wind that tugged the guy ropes of the night Pavilion whistled through Ferenzia Station.
The Reverend Will Brandiman tucked his marine-surplus radio rig back inside his doublet and leaned out of the steam train’s window. “There they are, Ned—right on time.”
His brother stuck a wimpled head out of the window as the train hissed, chugged, and screeched to a halt on the southern-incoming platform. The air under the high panelled-glass station roof smelled of steam, grit, and food-stalls. A crowd of brightly dressed halflings, elves, dwarves, and Men thronged the platform, all illuminated by the spitting naphtha flares. Their waving banners read, “VOTE LIGHT, VOTE AMARYNTH!” and “AMARYNTH FOR THE THRONE OF THE WORLD!”
“There’s upwards of five hundred,” Ned marvelled, “on the platform alone. Are all of them Mother’s rent-a-mob?”
Will tapped the radio rig. “That’s what she says. An audience for us.”
The two halflings looked at each other as doors banged open down the length of the election express special, echoing in the vast interior space.
Ned grinned. “Let’s do it!”
Will slicked back his dyed black hair, still leaning out of the train window. He touched the transit button on the radio. “Hairfoot to Grace, we’re coming in, do you copy?”
“Grace to Hairfoot, copy loud and clear. Take it away, boys.”
Cheers echoed. Four fat dwarves unrolled a red velvet carpet towards the Holy One’s carriage. Will ducked back into the train and made his way forward, Ned at his heels.
“Your Holy Paladinship.” Will bowed. “Your people wish to greet you.”
“And so they shall greet us.” The dark elf Amarynth, Holy Son of the Lady, stood accoutred in a white robe sewn with pearls. Diamonds fastened his shaggy mane of black hair back above his pointed ears. “Come, let us descend.”
A flurry of Flagellant Knights descended first, clearing the crowds back. Will assumed a pious expression and clasped his hands before his breast, treading in a stately manner down the small flight of movable steps to the platform. A muttered curse at his back informed him that Ned had trod on his habit’s hem again.
Questions came rapid-fire from the crowd:
“Your Reverendship, will you say a few words for the press?”
“This way, Reverend—smile for the camera!”
“How’s the campaign going?”
“Mother Edwina, will you say something for the women of Ferenzia?”
Will held up his hands soberly. The thronging crowd of halfling ballad-singers, Human gossips, dwarf rumourmongers, and an elven broadsheet camera crew formed a half-circle around the train steps. “Gentlemen! Ladies! One at a time, please!”
Mother Edwina picked up his skirts and walked to join his brother, whip and handcuffs jangling on his chain belt. “Good people of Ferenzia! It is not we who should speak to you. Behold—the Lady’s Son himself, your Light candidate, Amarynth!”
Flashbulbs popped and the general decibel level of questions rose to screaming pitch. The crowd behind the press waved their banners, chanting “AM-A-RYNTH! AM-A-RYNTH!” The Holy One appeared in the train door, paused for a moment, then swept down the steps and onto the red carpet.
“We stand before you filled with Light and hope!” The elf spread his arms. The sleeves of his white robe flashed back the illumination of the naphtha lamps. “In two days the final accounting is due—our victory, which will wipe the treacherous forces of Darkness from the face of the earth!”
Reverend William Brandiman and Mother Edwina proceeded to orchestrate the taking of questions, Will with half an eye on the guardsmen shepherding Ferenzia’s enthusiastic general public. The gate from the platform into the main body of the station was hopelessly blocked. Will searched the broadsheet gossip-mongers for any familiar face.
In the second rank of the crowd, effectively concealed by Men’s legs and the skirts of their doublets, Magda Brandiman stood with notebook and quill in hand, a slouch hat pulled down over her eyes.
“There.” Will nudged Mother Edwina. The wimpled halfling followed his gaze.
“I see, brother. Mother Edwina will call on her for a question after the dwarf has finished.”
Will took a deep breath to steady himself. The Holy One’s answer to the dwarf interviewer’s question seemed unusually extensive. He glanced up at Amarynth.
“…And furthermore,” Amarynth said, “in the certain knowledge of our victory, we have an announcement to make. A most important announcement! It should perhaps wait—but we are so anxious that we cannot.”
Amarynth Firehand beamed, first at the crowd of journalists and then directly at Will and Ned. The Holy One stepped forward in the expectant silence.
He sank gracefully to one knee in front of Ned Brandiman.
“Mother Edwina!” Amarynth Firehand began. “We know that your Order, the Little Sisters of Mortification, is not an Order that forbids congress with members of the opposite sex. Indeed, many of the Little Sisters even marry. Oh, Edwina, marry me!”
A fury of flashbulbs burst, tripod-cameras catching the expression of stunned amazement on the halfling features of Mother Edwina. Someone behind Will said, “Aw, that’s so sweet!”
“You must know how we feel!” Amarynth exclaimed. “Edwina, our feelings cannot come as a surprise to you.”
Ned Brandiman regarded Amarynth for a confused moment. “You’re an elf. I’m a halfling. It would never work.”
“But it will!” the Holy One protested, holding out a beseeching hand. “Edwina, make us the happiest of elves! Say yes!”
The crowd of elves, dwarves, and Men around Will scribbled furiously, glancing from the Light’s candidate to the halfling in her red nun’s habit. Will belatedly shut his open mouth. A Man muttered excitedly, “Headline: LIGHT CANDIDATE PROPOSES TO GOOD ABBESS, WEDDING OF THE YEAR, question mark!”
The Good Abbess Edwina stood on the station platform, her motherly, wrinkled face catching the naphtha lights. The night wind blew around the skirts of her red robe. The silver tip of her whip gleamed. For a long moment she stood perfectly still, gazing into the eyes of the kneeling elf, which were just on her level.
She reached up slowly and pulled off her wimple, disclosing tight brown curls and a fair amount of chin-stubble.
“I’m a male halfling,” Ned Brandiman pointed out gruffly.
“No one of us is perfect,” Amarynth shrugged.