Mary Gentle - Grunts

The elven fighter-mage clapped the dwarf on the back, reaching down low to do it. Picking their way among the dead bodies of orcs, enchantresses, and ogres, the two warriors of Light made their way across the Fields of Destruction to a low ridge.

There, beyond the crows flocking down to settle on the field of battle, the countryside of the Northern Kingdoms stretched away in the sunset light. Gold touched the cornfields, the spires of distant villages, and the quiet, winding rivers.

“We shall go to Herethlion,” Amarynth said softly. “There will be much singing. The heroes shall be honoured. And the greatest of them all shall be rewarded by the High King Kelyos Magorian.”

Kazra snorted, resting on the haft of her axe. “And the High King Magorian had better appoint some of us to his Council, since who but we who fought for the Northern Kingdoms best know how to govern them? There is much that needs putting right, friend Amarynth. Traitors and Dark-lovers yet remain in hiding. We must search them out—with an inquisition, if need be.”

An unexpected and unaccustomed smile spread over Amarynth’s aquiline brown features. His black hair shone in the sun. The last vestiges of magic fractured in gold light in his eyes.

“Fear not, Kazra. We have vermin to root out, I doubt not, but we this day have created a world to last a thousand years! A world for the Light, in which no shadow of Darkness shall trouble us again.”

“And what of the scattered remnants of the defeated Evil Horde?”

“Oh,” Amarynth said, “they have nowhere to run to. We shall exterminate them over the next few weeks. After all, their Dark Master is dead and their Dark Land invaded. Where can they go, and what help can they hope for? Every good man’s hand is against them.”

The elven fighter-mage and the dwarf began to walk west, into the light of the setting sun. Kazra’s boot squelched. She swore an ancient dwarvish oath and bent down to tug her foot free of tangled white intestines spilling from the gutted body of a great orc. She cracked an orc-rib and freed her boot, muttering at the stench of decomposing flesh. Two fat cows waddled across the earth towards the corpse.

“To Herethlion!” Amarynth cried.

Kazra echoed him. “To Herethlion!”

Side by side they strode west, into a world of golden light.

The first beams of dawn shafted down through the branches of the Old Forest. Sunlight fell through ancient beech trees to the leaf-covered forest floor. Under spreading oaks, bracken turned autumnal red. Dew hung grey on spiderwebs.

A bird began to sing.

FOOM!

Amid falling feathers, Company Sergeant Marukka blew a drift of smoke from her Desert Eagle pistol and reholstered it.

“All right , you grunts—hands off cocks; on socks!”

Company Sergeant Marukka strolled down the lines of recumbent orc bodies, bellowing, kicking out with her combat boots. Black unit insignia and sergeant’s chevrons tattooed her muscular green arms. Over her squat body she wore a camouflage jacket with the sleeves ripped off and a black undershirt that strained over her large breasts. Knives, grenades, and pistols hung from her webbing. Her orange hair was pulled up into a skull-ornamented plume on the crown of her head.

“I can’t wait all da-ay…” Marukka sang sweetly. “On your feet , marines!”

Marukka turned and stood with her back to the largest beech tree, bowed legs planted wide apart, her gnarled hands clasped behind her back. The many orc grunts who had slept concealed in bracken began to stir, sitting up and rubbing their heads. One green-skinned orc absently stood up to piss. A boot emerged from the bush he had chosen as his target and kicked him across the clearing. There was a clatter of weapons and armour as he landed.

“You’re going to hate my guts,” Marukka announced, satisfied. “I’m here to see you get it right , not to wipe your scaly bums! I’ll leave that to your mothers—those of you assholes who had mothers. Even a mother couldn’t love a scurvy, filthy, undisciplined bunch of wankers like you. Am I right?”

Half on their feet, partly armoured, each with a weapon to hand, the assembled orcs hastily chorused, “Yes, Sergeant!”

“Then get your asses in gear, you ’orrible little orcs, or I’ll have your bollocks for breakfast! Corporals, get your ores on parade! At the double! Now! ” Marukka paced forward, still with her hands behind her back. She kept a wary eye on the broken-down hovel that temporarily housed the company’s officers. hearing muttering voices inside. She surveyed the orcs in the slanting sunlight—some pissing up trees, some fastening combat jackets and trousers, some still slumped on the ground.

“You think because you’ve just been through the Last Battle, that excuses you? You shower of shit! You’re marines . You there—your weapons are filthy. You—your kit is incomplete. Smarten it up, you ’orrible little lot!”

“YES SERGEANT!”

One orc marine sat down again, clutching his bleeding arm. In the daylight, a number of marine injuries were visible.

“ Fit marines to the right,” Marukka bawled, “and wounded marines to the left. Crawl if you have to.”

The company split raggedly, some three hundred or more orc marines moving to the right side of the clearing and perhaps thirty (more slowly) to the left.

Marukka’s lips curled back in a snarl. She walked up to the dozen marines who still stood in the centre of the clearing.

“ So . Can’t make up our minds, can we? Not fit or wounded marines? Just what do you think you lot are, then?”

An albino orc drew himself more smartly to attention. “Please, Sergeant, dead marines.”

“What?”

Marukka goggled. The twelve orc marines fiddled with their tattered bloody combat fatigues, attempting to conceal gaping gut wounds and various fractures. A chill came off them that was not the chill of dawn.

“To be completely accurate, Undead marines, Sergeant. We was raised, Sergeant, by a necromancer of unknown provenance.”

“Ah. Well. Lugashaldim, isn’t it? Very well, Corporal Lugashaldim.” Marukka nodded to the albino orc briskly. “Undead marine squad—carry on.”

“Yes, Sergeant!” The Undead orc marine saluted. A finger detached itself from his hand and flew across the clearing, striking a female orc lance-corporal under the left ear. She growled.

Marukka about-faced and marched across to the small hovel in time to salute Barashkukor as the captain came out. “Beg to report the company is ready for General Ashnak’s inspection.”

“The general is ready to inspect!”

While Ashnak walked around on inspection, Marukka ordered her lesser NCOs into assigning spare weapons, checking backpacks, correcting the use of camouflage-paint on scabby orc features, and checking the remaining rounds of ammunition. At the end of half an hour she saluted the orc general under the big beech tree.

“Ready to move out, sir. We’re low on ammunition until we get back to base. Suggest the marines use only their polearms, sir, if we run into opposition.”

“We’ll run into opposition, Sergeant. The Light is going to be combing the Northern Kingdoms for survivors of that battle. And we just made ourselves the number one target.” The big orc general pulled an urban camouflage forage cap down to shade his eyes. He chewed on an unlit cigar. “Thank you, Sergeant. Captain Barashkukor, get the orcs ready to move out.”

Barashkukor slammed a small booted foot into the leafmould and saluted. “Sir! Sir, what about the wounded who can’t walk?”

The orc general shrugged. “We’ve got a long march in front of us. They’re history.”