Mary Gentle - Grunts

Listening.

Waiting.

“These talismans, Marine Razitshakra. If such things exist—where would we get them?”

The golden-eyed orc brightened. “Ah. Yes, sir. Now that’s the interesting part.”

Wine had been spilt in the corridor of the House of Joy, and the halfling put his bare, hairy foot in it before he noticed. Making a face, he wiped his leathery sole on the bare boards. A few remaining coins clunked in his trunk-hose pockets.

The door at the end of the hall was ajar, and he pushed it open. Lanterns illuminated a Man-room—or so he first thought, looking at the bed—but the dressing table and washstand were halfling-sized furniture.

A whip snapped the air beside his left ear. “Onto the bed, slave!”

“Yes, mistress!” He fell to his knees, grovelling in front of a pair of very small, high, stiletto-heeled boots. The lantern light gleamed on black leather calves and slender thighs, and a studded belt from which hung shackles.

The whip cracked, stinging him smartly across the buttocks. He abased himself again, and then crawled over to the bed. It was impractical to crawl up onto it, it being Manfurniture. He stood and climbed up onto the rubber sheets.

“You will address me as Mistress, scum—Safire, I’m going to need the small shackles; hurry , girl!—and you will kiss my boots and be thankful for the privilege. Is that clear ?”

“Yes, Mistress!” He writhed happily. The maid, whom he assumed to be Safire, locked shackles on his wrists and ankles in somewhat too much of a professional manner, but he could forgive that. He was not by any means the first of the Army of Light home from the wars.

“Now, what have we here…a helpless victim, is it? Or is it a bad boy who needs punishing? Is it a bad boy who needs a whipping?”

He whimpered happily. “Yes. I’ve been bad.”

The shackles tightened, pulled back and fastened at the four corners of the bedstead. He sprawled face-down on the bed, his small limbs stretched outwards. A leather-gloved hand slid up between his short legs and unbuttoned his trunk-hose.

“Now—” the voice of the whore, mock-triumphant, as she pulled down his breeches and exposed his bare buttocks. “Bad boy! I’ll give you a whipping you’ll never forget! Bad boy!”

A welt of fire lashed his buttocks. He was too startled to enjoy it.

“Wait—”

“You’re a bad boy!”

Unmistakable.

He did the best he could to roll on one side, and look up over his shoulder. The female halfling stood on the bed, legs astride him, coiling her whip. He stared up at the black leather head-mask, seeing only an impersonal pair of eyes.

Bad boy .

The voice was unmistakable.

He said, “Mother—is that you ?”

The watery autumnal sunlight broke three days of continuous fog as Barashkukor marched smartly across the inner compound of the Nin-Edin fort.

Reaching the door of the stone outhouse designated “Research Laboratory No. 1037,” he took off his GI helmet and, after some thought, tucked it under his left arm. His long, hairless ears sprang upright.

“ Asssschu! ”

A voice from behind the closed door called, “What is it, Captain Barashkukor?”

His small brows indented. He lifted a fist to knock smartly on the wood. Somewhere inside the stone shed a loud explosion sounded. Smoke drifted out of the glassless windows. An orcish scream split the air. Barashkukor ignored it and knocked again. The door creaked open.

“We’re busy; what—” Marine Razitshakra stopped. “ What? ”

Barashkukor, his back ramrod straight, came to attention. The small orc’s combat boots gleamed, his green DPM camouflage trousers had been laundered and pressed, and a display of grenades and .50-calibre ammunition hung on bandoliers across his thin chest.

“Marine Razitshakra.” He thrust out his left hand. His helmet, forgotten, dropped and bounced painfully off his foot. “For you.”

Razitshakra inspected the posy of autumn wildflowers the small orc captain held out. “Um…That’s…um…sir…”

“They’re for you.”

Barashkukor stuffed the flowers into the orc marine’s hand, the tips of his ears drooping; then snapped a salute, about-faced, and marched off back across the compound.

The female orc took off her rimless spectacles and put them in her top pocket. She blinked. In the distance, Captain Barashkukor about-faced again, marched back, and bent to pick up the camouflage-covered GI pot.

“Forgot my helmet,” he explained.

Razitshakra lowered her broad nostrils into the posy and sniffed it. She took a bite. Tentatively at first, she began to chew the dog roses, holly, and nightshade.

Barashkukor’s shoulders slumped. He turned his back on her and walked away, feet dragging, his eyes on the beaten earth of the compound.

On the walls above, the marine alarm horns rang out, and an urgent drum began to beat.

Barashkukor shrugged skinny shoulders and carried on walking.

Orc squads pounded past him at the double, corporals and NCOs shouted alarmed orders, and somewhere Marukka’s bellow split the chill air. Weapons clashed. Up on the parapet, skull-pole standards were hastily raised. The inner iron portcullis clashed down, three yards from Barashkukor’s left elbow, burying its spikes several feet deep in the dirt.

“Captain!”

Moodily, Barashkukor glanced up. The rising bulk of Nin-Edin at his back, he gazed through the iron grating at the great mountain ranges rising to either side of the pass. Grey cloud still clung to the impassable peaks. Before him, beyond the outer bailey and outer defensive walls, a desolate valley ran down to the lowlands…

The distant road that wound up to this mountain pass glittered.

“Oh, shit,” Barashkukor said.

Lowland sunshine reflected back from the helms, shields, armour, and weapons of the approaching, besieging Army of Light.

“You’ve changed, son. I hardly know you.”

The halfling Magda emerged from behind the room’s silk screen wearing a crimson-furred velvet gown. She tied its belt firmly around her hourglass-waist.

“And I hardly expected to find you wearing that uniform.”

She walked across the room and picked up a thin roll of black pipe-weed, fitting it into a long ivory holder. Reaching up to a candleflame, she lit the pipe-weed and drew deeply. She passed her hand through her short dark hair.

“Mother, everyone knew which was going to be the winning side.”

Magda inhaled another lungful of pipe-weed. She studied her son as he sat in the chair by the window, watching for first light. His curly black hair was thickly streaked with white.

“Besides, I thought that the Army of Light had a better chance of collecting its pay arrears.”

He lounged back, fully clad; black mail-shirt glinting in the candlelight below the white of his small ruff. The favour of the Army of Light—a yellow sash—he wore tied about his left arm. His doublet and trunk-hose showed signs of wear, and the wood of his short-sword scabbard had split and been badly repaired with wire.

“You wrote that you had become wealthy.”

The halfling’s dark eyes flicked in her direction. There were lines bitten into his found face that had not been there eighteen months ago.

“Wealth doesn’t last. Gamblers had most of mine.”

“Mmm…” A little suspicious still, Magda walked to the window and stood on tiptoe to peer out. “And your brother, where is he?”

For the first time in an hour, her son smiled.