Mary Gentle - Grunts

“Yes, master! At once, master!”

Cowering in a practised fashion, head still bent, Ashnak swivelled his eyes up to watch the Men, Elves, and Dwarves depart. The nameless necromancer bowed gracefully, gesturing for his sister to precede him.

In the nameless necromancer’s eyes Ashnak sees the look of one who is sizing up yellow hair, grey-white skin, and fresh bones for domestic utility.

A last whistle of incoming fire brought him to his belly, rolling into concealment behind a section of broken wall and reaching for his helmet RT. “CEASE FIRE, MARINES! Fall back! Emergency rendezvous at Nin-Edin— bug out! NOW!”

“ Acknowledged —”

“— I copy— ”

The few voices cease.

Craters steamed in the westering sun. Smoke, cordite, and the sparkling fog of magic began to clear. Vapours drifted over slumped bodies, charred DPM combats, abandoned heavy weapons, and minced flesh. The dead lay in clumps and rows.

Because it is our flesh, it seems it should be different. Ashnak shook his head at the thought. Knobs of bone, shining joints, slick muscle tissue; all no different from a shambles or abattoir.

Even looking at the nearest area of the battlefield he can see recognisable corpses. Three companies: practically a battalion . The orc marines of Nin-Edin…Kusaritku and Azarluhi together, and several with them burned beyond identification. Duranki, Tukurash, Kazadhuron. And, ahead of the rest, as always leading the charge as a commander should, lies Captain Imhullu. The sun shines down on his blind face.

But The Named will not ride at Samhain. Ashnak will bet on it. For whatever her absence is worth.

Not much, as ever, to the dead.

Ashnak stood, the black fire of the necromancer’s rough and ready healing coursing through him. He wiped pus and blood from his remaining burns and straightened, sniffing, pulling deep breaths down into his broad chest. The air stank of shit and blood.

He took out his forage cap and put it on, pulling down the peak. The charred remnants of his uniform pocket yielded, amazingly, fresh pipe-weed. He stuck a cigar in his mouth and strolled across to the wreck of the helicopter.

A heap of masonry some yards from the Huey collapsed and disclosed the two orcs who had gone to cover. The larger, a female with her orange hair tied up in a horse-tail, shook herself. The smaller, who appeared to have been attempting to hide under his own GI helmet, sat up beside her.

“So what does an orc call a halfling?” the small orc inquired.

“Lunch.” The large female orc slapped her DPM-camouflaged thigh. “Lunch!”

“Damn right,” Ashnak growled.

The smaller orc sprang to his feet and saluted. “Sir, General Ashnak, sir!”

“At ease, Lieutenant… Captain Barashkukor,” Ashnak corrected himself.

Marukka saluted. “The firefight’s over.” The orange-haired orc hefted a shoulder-fired missile-launcher in one hand. “I guess we won’t be using these anymore, will we, sir? I want my poleaxe back.”

Barashkukor folded his small arms over his flak jacket. “But I like the armour.”

Ashnak bent down, recovering water bottles and knives from corpses, slinging them from his webbing. He left the guns. He grinned toothily and began to laugh, deep belly laughs that shook him until his tilted eyes watered.

“It’s not important.” Ashnak put his horny arms around the two orcs’ shoulders. “Fuck, man, the weapons aren’t important!”

In the Old Forest, now, or in the Man-countryside, there will be orc survivors heading back to Nin-Edin. They’ve been taught how to fall back and regroup. They’ll obey. They’re marines. They’re grunts .

Ashnak of the fighting Agaku grinned an orc grin, and stared into the red light of the setting sun.

“So the hostiles have magic. So what! Think about what happened down there, marines. We were disciplined. We fought as units. We were tactical. Orcs fought as a team. ”

“Yeah,” Marukka said slowly. “It wasn’t just warriors charging off into the fight on their own, or killing each other instead of the enemy. Different orc-tribes fought side by side! My squad kicked ass! If we hadn’t had to stop when we did…”

Ashnak looked away from the sunset, black dots swimming in his vision. He rubbed the wet corners of his tilted eyes. Beside him, Barashkukor brought one small booted foot down hard, coming smartly to attention.

“Sir, we are marines, sir!”

“That’s right…”

Ashnak tugged his forage cap down over his hairless skull, between his peaked ears. He shifted the unlit cigar to the corner of his tusked mouth and thumped Barashkukor between his skinny shoulder-blades. The small orc staggered and sat down hard on the turf.

“That’s right .” Ashnak grinned ferociously. “There can be more of us. I promise you. There’s always the Last Battle. There’s always after the Last Battle…”

“Sir, yes sir!”

The crimson sun shines on the three of them, casting their shadows long across the carnage of the battlefield around Guthranc. The forces of Light, badly mauled, limp away from the scene of their victory. Below the Tower, the orc marines are already lighting fires and roasting the wounded.

It is Samhain. The Autumn Solstice, the Day of Dead Souls. The fate of the free world hangs in the balance.

The Final Battle of the Army of Light against the Horde of Darkness seethes backwards across the vast plain that chroniclers call the Fields of Destruction.

Squadrons of black-armoured orcs and wolverine-riding trolls, battalions of fire-demons and mutant ogres, companies of evil djinni, cacodaemons and dark elves, armies of witch-queens, and the thirteen necromancers of the Horde of Darkness, raven against the outnumbered Army of Light. Jagged swords, warhammers, and poleaxes bloodily rise and fall. Battalions of mutant monsters lumber into the carnage. Leather-winged beasts swoop down over the pitifully outnumbered forces of Good.

Vast is the Horde. Its sorcery crackles like black lightning around the horizon; it eclipses the sun at noon.

For the third time since midday, the right flank of the Evil Horde began piecemeal to retreat.

A voice yelped, “Hold the line!”

An evil ogre stood with his spiked helm firmly down over his brows, shield up, his warhammer poised over his head in fierce attack-posture.

“I said hold the line , soldier!” A small and oddly dressed orc loped down the hill from the ridge. The ogre’s brows contracted in confusion.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the newcomer snarled. He stood hip-high to the evil ogre, who looked down in puzzlement at the mottled green patterns on the orc’s round, visorless helmet, and breeches and padded jerkins. The small orc wore boots.

“I am holding the line. I’m facing the enemy,” the unwounded ogre explained. He blinked rapidly. “They won’t get past me! I’m holding the line all right.”

The small orc pulled off his helmet and threw it furiously to the ground. It bounced. The orc’s spindly, peaked ears began to unkink.

“You’re facing the enemy all right—from twenty yards behind our lines!” The orc used both hands to wave a snubbed metallic tube at the evil ogre. “Of course they won’t get past you, you snivelling excuse for a soldier. They’re way over there!”