Mary Gentle - Grunts

Ashnak looked down from the APC into the bowl of land that held the Tower of Guthranc, nestled in its surroundings of rolling cornfields. The unharvested white grain was mashed down with tyretracks and the marks of marching feet. To the east the Old Forest, massy and green, dreamed under the hot noon. The artillery thudded behind him and stopped firing.

Imhullu’s squads of grunts advanced towards the Tower, weapons blazing. Ashnak put the binos to his eyes and caught an intensified image of the squat black orc, Kusaritku, firing a shoulder-held rocket-launcher. Flame belched. Red and gold fire bloomed from the foot of Guthranc’s east wing.

Gatling-gun fire raked the towers where Men and other filth scrabbled across the fallen rubble. Some threw up their hands and fell. Red drenched the fallen stones, drained into gullies. Ashnak, narrowing his eyes, picked out the cover still remaining, and the tips of longbows raised…

“Major Shazgurim, do you copy? Over.”

“I copy, Colonel. Now. Over?”

“Take ’em in. Advance at will. Go, go, go! Out. Zarkingu, advance your platoon! Keep Imhullu’s platoon out of your arc of fire. Go, you motherfuckers, go!”

He slammed a horny-hided fist down on the APC. Its engine roared. He bawled instructions at the driver, shouldered his M60, and braced himself as the vehicle jolted and rocked over the ploughed earth.

Ahead, fire and smoke blazed up in tall columns. The rear walls of Guthranc fragmented and collapsed. Imhullu’s orcs scrambled up the long slope toward the foot of the fallen towers in extended line. Cordite choked the air. Smoke hung heavy and low.

And from the east, from their concealment in the Old Forest, the two reserve platoons advanced, firing.

“Agaku! Agaku! ”

His helmet RT deafened him with war-cries. Ashnak yelled wildly, grinning, shoved his GI helmet down over his beetle-brows, and ordered the APC in a wide curve that took him round the western edge of the diversionary attack line and across the Vordenburn road. He raised the M60 and fired, exulting in recoil and noise, screaming over the firefight:

“ Agaku! AGAKU!”

The APC’s nose dipped forward and dug into the soft earth at the moat’s edge. Ashnak scrambled up, over, and out. His boots hit the wet earth. He ran for the pontoons, craning his neck to see the demolished towers above him; raised the M60 and blazed up at the walls. Combat-clad orcs piled past him, tusked mouths grinning, their guns jabbing flame into the noon sunlight. Smoke and stink began to erase the battlefield. Ashnak hit dirt in the cover of a fallen wall and looked back.

Lines of orcs raced up the slope at the charge, screaming and throwing grenades. The crump! of heavy weapons shook the ground. Earth gouted up. It showered Ashnak’s face with the smell of cultivated fields.

The helmet RT blared: “Charge! Chaaaarge!” Shazgurim’s voice, tinny over the small amplifier. Satisfied that the main attack was going in, Ashnak shrugged, hefted the M60, and grinned, knowing there was nothing now but to go in at the head of the reinforcing attack. Any hostiles that survived would have no option but to come out to the north—where they would run into the cut-off squad.

He opened his mouth and bawled “Chaarge!” at Imhullu’s grunts, shoulder-rolled around the fallen masonry, and came up the slope with the M60 juddering and wrenching at his grip. Its muzzle rose, stitching the walls of Guthranc from bottom left to top right in one slow curve. An elf and a dwarf broke to run, and the rounds spattered their blood and intestines across the stones.

“Chaaaarge—”

He scrambled over smoking rubble into the inner courts, firing the M60 one-handed, and a horse reared up in front of him. The smoke cleared enough to let sun blaze from gold surcoat and white harness. The Named reared above him, one bare hand raised.

Ashnak hit the magazine-catch, released one, snicked another loaded magazine flawlessly into place. “Die, motherfucker!”

All in a splintered second:

Dakka-dakka-FOOM!

The rounds track up, beginning to whip through the rainbow shimmer of her protective spell as if it does not exist.

The Named, smiling, sits the white horse’s saddle with grace; in her other armoured hand is a sword. She has no time to strike, but time to speak.

Ashnak reads her wide, loose lips as they move. The Named mouths: “ Fail weapons. ”

Silence.

Not until then realising how the metallic shriek and roar of the guns has vibrated through him, numbed his eardrums; how the coughing roar of explosion after explosion has deafened him; not realising until now when there suddenly falls—silence.

An invisible hand swatted Ashnak to the grass.

Mouth full of dirt, spitting, he shook his head (helmet dented, the air burning on his face) and rolled and came up with the M60 machinegun tucked into his body. The metal burned his hands with cold blue fire. It seared, cut, sawed at his skin. Ashnak, ignoring the pain, raised the muzzle until he held the armoured female Man in his sights.

“ Die, bitch! ”

He jerked the trigger—useless.

Witch-fire rippled out and over his body, burning his skin.

Every inch of him blazing, Ashnak rolled on the earth. His combat trousers fused, the material sticking to his skin; and the bandoleers of bullets grew warm to the touch, grew hotter—

Ashnak, ripping the bandoleers off, plunged back down the slope. He hit the moat and rolled in the wet mud, quenching witch-flames. The M60 gone: the final disgrace, to lose a weapon. Pain shook him, his sloping shoulders and long arms burned raw; tough hide seared from his legs and torso. He bolted for cover and crouched shaking and filthy with mud behind a section of the gatehouse wall.

The Men and elves on the ramparts threw down their unaccustomed weapons.

“Yo, marine!” Ashnak pounded across the iron-hard earth towards one of Imhullu’s grunts, the black orc Kusaritku, who knelt and fired the rocket-launcher. Witch-fire licked down from the Tower.

The rocket split in the tube and shrapnelled the air.

Deafened by the explosion, Ashnak hit dirt. Warm, wet meat draped over his hands and arms. He reached over Kusaritku’s body to get the rocket-launcher. The small orc Kusaritku, combats soaked with blood, scooped at the white and green tubes leaking from his belly and then lay back, his eyes on the sky. The camouflage-covered helmet slipped down over his face.

“Rush them!” Ashnak made his voice heard over screams, shouts, and the remnants of firing. “ Target the mages! Rush them!”

The ruined walls of the Tower loomed above him, white stone blackened with soot. Men and elves stood up on the walls now, behind shimmering guards of magic. They cast off their helmets and threw down their swords, picking up staffs.

“ Charge! ” He raised a discarded M16 assault rifle, squeezing the trigger. Nothing. Feverishly he changed magazines, fired again—the firing-pin fell with a dull click. Nothing. Again, and—nothing. He threw down the gun, ripped the pin from a grenade, and hurled it. The green ovoid fell into the rubble with a metallic clink. Nothing more.

Time slipped a gear.

Ashnak became aware that he was running across the inner courtyard of the Tower. He caught his foot and fell. He made to get up and his leg gave way, the bone poking through the flesh. His other leg burned, blistering and pus-filled. Ashnak picked up a dead orc’s Kalashnikov and rested it across his seared forearms and began to crawl, using his arms to pull his useless lower body along.

“ Agaku! I smell magic, small -magic, nothing -magic!”

Capering, Zarkingu danced on a section of the parapet above him. Her crest, tied up with a camouflage sleeve, lashed in the hot air and smoke. Ashnak saw her eyes gleaming. Froth spilled out of her mouth. She cocked her Uzi submachine-gun and squeezed the trigger. The gun did not fire. “Colonel, it’s nothing but a simple ’fail weapons’ spell—”