Mary Gentle - Grunts

“That’ll do for His Lordship.”

Barashkukor hustled the elderly hero forward.

A library-hush muted the noise of the Light delegates—Men, dwarves, elves, and halflings—shuffling onto their benches. Ashnak caught the eye of one elf, the marks of age shocking on his face, seated between the Mayor of Sarderis and a Snake Priest of Shazmanar. “Inquisitor Elinturanbar.”

“You do not belong on this side!” the long-dying elf hissed. “Come not near! We shall bring justice down on you one day soon.”

The races of Darkness—trolls, witches, necromancers, Undead, kobolds, and the rest—scrambled for places on the benches on the left-hand side. Ashnak’s hairy nostrils flared. At the centre of the front bench a figure slouched, its leather robe a patchwork of hands and limbs, eyes and lips, all tanned and sewn together with silver wire.

“Lord Necromancer,” Ashnak acknowledged, out of sheer habit.

Dirt and dried blood stiffened the nameless necromancer’s skin robe. What could be seen of his tusked face under the cowl had a greenish, decaying cast. He creaked.

“Ssscum!” the nameless hissed. “Traitor to thish side of the House. Do you think you can betray the Dark by letting the Bug-filth live and not yourself live to bitterly regret your mercy ?”

“ Ain’t you pissed you,” Ashnak grinned. “Nothing to do with missing the victory celebrations due to being dead, of course.”

“ Bah! ”

Light gleamed down from the Opticon’s dome onto the first World Parliament. The Dark delegates crowded each other unmercifully—whistling, throwing dung, hauling the books down from the shelves behind them, and reading the more dubious passages aloud.

“Call them to order!” Oderic, High Wizard of Ferenzia, demanded as Ashnak approached him.

Ashnak surveyed his grunts, who were mostly leaning up against the panelled seats and bumming pipe-weed from the delegates, and the Order of White Mages, who strode about in their Sun-ornamented surcoats attempting to reduce the chaos.

“No point,” Ashnak rumbled. “They’ll quieten down soon enough when—yo! There!”

Outside, a sparkling blue sky shone over the Dread Lord of Dead Aeons as She descended from Her bone palanquin, surrounded by cheering Ferenzi and the Horde of Darkness.

The Dark Lord entered the vast, book-dusty hall of the Opticon. Black dire-wolf furs swathed Her head to foot. Under the cloak a tight-fitting black silk robe rippled, slashed to the thigh, and belted with a jeweled waistband. Intricate steel-and-silver jewelry clasped Her arms and Her ankles. Her ash-blonde hair gleamed, Her head uncovered and unadorned.

Cheering crowds pressed in close behind Major-General Barashkukor’s cordon of orc marine guards at the double doors, waving flags and chanting:

“ DARK LORD! DARK LORD! DARK LORD! ”

Ashnak hitched up his web-belt and combat trousers and ambled across the floor of the Opticon to the Dark Lord. “Your Parliament assembled, Ma’am, for the first free, frank, and democratic exchange of views between Your loyal government and Your loyal opposition. As soon as they can make their minds up which is which.”

The Dark Lord surveyed the benches to left and right of the Throne, Her delicate profile turned to Ashnak. “Shall I preside well, do you think, little orc? This power has been so long in the achieving, I think I have forgotten what it was I would do with it.”

“Buck up, Ma’am!” Ashnak removed his forage cap, coming solidly to attention. “You just do what every other Ruler of the World’s done and You’ll be all right—reward a few, hang a few, and tax everything that moves.”

She laughed, a sound of ancient amusement. “You advise Me well, orc. Perhaps I shall make you My chancellor.” Ashnak grunted noncommittally.

“Or perhaps I shall not …There is something I wish to have done, after this. It is a proud and lonely thing to be Ruler of the World. Therefore I shall not sit upon My throne alone. I shall take a companion, a consort. Mine will be thought a strange choice, but I have seen, and in seeing desired, and desiring, must have. Shall it be thought strange to raise a commoner, and one not of My own race? Then so be it. And, orc Ashnak—you know the one.”

“Erm.” Ashnak sweated in the sunlight filtering down from the Opticon’s central dome. “Really, Ma’am?”

The Dark Lord frowned. “Don’t be coy.”

“I suppose,” Ashnak grated, salt sweat trickling into his eyes, “I could hazard a guess, and while I’m sensible of the honour, Dread Lord, I really don’t think I—”

The Dark Lord spoke over his mumbling.

“We have met few enough times, of course, but often enough to spark My desire. And she is not, after all, a complete commoner.”

“I— she ?” Ashnak barked.

The Dark Lord turned Her ancient, humanly beautiful face towards the orc as She paced towards the Throne. “Why yes. Ever since the night she came to My tent, I have known that I must have Magdelene, Duchess of Graaagryk. My beautiful Magda! Be so good as to inform her that we will wed, after I have settled affairs in Ferenzia and quietened the south. You, Ashnak, may be best orc and give the bride away.”

Ashnak growled. “She’s married.”

“She’s divorced. I have said so: so let it be. We shall,” the Dark Lord added, “have to think of a suitable role for you also in this new world, little orc. Some backwater province that needs a junior governor. Of course, the orc marines will be disbanded…”

“Ma’am!” Ashnak saluted, his gaze sliding across the seats and registering, in the upper gallery, the Duchess of Graagryk’s cameras.

To the ringing of the White Mages’ silver trumpets and the fluttering wings of a thousand released black doves, the Lord of Darkness advanced up the hall of the Opticon and stood before the Throne of the World.

The marble floor tiles ceased under the central dome. Four Men of the Order of White mages knelt there, where, surrounded by its marble dais, a fang of ancient continental bedrock jutted up. Living rock—around which first the Opticon and later Ferenzia itself had been built. The black stone breathed antiquity.

Hands older than the city of Ferenzia had carved this basalt outcrop into a throne. Ancient winged and scaled beasts ornamented each of its corners as supporters. The seat shone with intricately chiselled flowers, fruits, vines, and corn-ears. The massive back of the throne rose up to a point, every inch carved with wings, eyes, globes, and solar discs.

The Dark Lord lifted Her arms, letting Her wolf-fur cloak fall. She stood, slender and tall, in Her clinging robe of ebony silk, Her jeweled belt flashing in the sunlit, dusty air. As She seated Herself, lounging back on the piled velvet cushions, Ashnak picked up Her robe and took his station to the left of the Throne of the World. High Wizard Oderic reluctantly stood to Her right, in his arms an onyx-and-diamond crown.

“Behold,” Oderic of Ferenzia cried, “the first democratic Parliament of the ruler of the World.”

“No, sssister!” a voice lisped from the front row of the Dark delegates.

The nameless necromancer hunched and slumped his way to his feet and onto the floor before the Throne. Ashnak rubbed his mouth, tasting the sudden metallic flavour of wizardry.

“We have both of ush been betrayed, sister! Now— avenge us!”

Orc marine squad leaders watched Ashnak for orders. He held up a restraining hand, his eyes on the Throne.

The Dark Lord lounged against one of the Throne’s carved arms, Her black robe falling back from her calf, knee, and thigh. Her skin glowed sepia-pale in the dusty light. Her orange eyes flared.