Mary Gentle - Grunts

Thoughts of the siege parley completely slipped his mind. Major Barashkukor wiped his nose and began, starry-eyed, to look around the compound of the Nin-Edin fort for something of sufficient interest to impress the elven journalist.

Far from Sarderis and Herethlion and the sea, north beyond the wilderness that interpenetrates the Demonfest mountain range, lies the Four-Gated City. The city has many more gates than four—they number in the hundreds, if not in the thousands—but of the original gates there are only four remaining: Tourmaline, Chrysoberyl, Lapis Lazuli, and Onyx. The first three are often used, the last never.

Ashnak’s commandos sensibly chose to make their entrance through the Tourmaline Gate. To remove locks and bars, terminate guards, avoid the Sunset Alarms, and booby-trap the watch-house was no greater task than running the Wilderness for six days and practising marine survival techniques at the unfriendly end of the Demonfest Mountains.

Twenty-four hours’ surveillance from the attic of a deserted mansion left Ashnak chewing his talons. Past sundown, he lifted the night-vision sights of his M16 to his eyes, watching the last frock-coated and bewigged Men leave the grounds of the Visible College.

“Not so much as a dwarf down there,” he muttered to Razitshakra. “Not a halfling, not an elf—certainly none of us. No race but Men. That leaves us with forcible entry.”

Ashnak surveyed the high walls of the Visible College in the curious green illumination of night-sights. He lowered the gun, his own sight being somewhat better. The fifty-foot outer wall gave way inside to parklike spaces with convolutedly trimmed hedges and to buildings with domes, cupolas, columned porticos, and very un-Classical slit windows.

“Okay, marines. We’re going in…”

Camouflaged, doing a slow leopard-crawl, it took them an hour to cross unobserved the empty space between the last mansions and the wall of the Visible College. Evening’s noise faded. Ashnak flexed his broad hands in the cover of the wall, craning his neck to look upward.

The moon rose from the rooftops, gibbous, in its last quarter. Its faint illumination showed him Razitshakra and the other marines crouched against the wall. Ashnak moved silently over to Lugashaldim, looking up at the masonry.

“Corporal, give me a hand.”

“Can’t, sir.”

“What?”

“It fell off, sir.” The Undead orc marine shuffled, embarrassed. In his large, horny right hand he held his left hand. “I’ll fix it, sir, it won’t take a minute.”

Stuffing the hand in one of his combats pockets, Lugashaldim detached his sewing-kit from his web-belt one-handed and looked a little helplessly at the thread and needles. One of the other Undead grunts grumbled something, threaded the needle in the faint moonlight, and set about sewing the offending limb back on.

“If you pussies have quite finished!” Ashnak hissed. “Are we an elite commando squad or are we a fucking sewing circle?”

There were mutters of “Sorry, sir,” and the Undead orc marines returned their attention to the Visible College.

“Bound to be guarded with magic,” one SUS marine whispered to his companion.

The other orc shivered. “Nobody said nothing about magic. That’s the marine corps for you. We get sent on these missions; nobody knows if they’re safe; could have wizards here for all we know; and do we get asked if we—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Ashnak hissed. “Marine Razitshakra, what are your recommendations?”

The scruffy orc removed her spectacles and gazed for some minutes at the walls surrounding the Visible College. She fixed on the largest dome.

“If we can go in through that we’ll probably find something. It smells right.” She shot a shamefaced glance at Ashnak. “I’m not really a magic-sniffer, honest, sir. It’s just that sometimes I can tell…”

“Right. Assault team, that is your target. Corporal Lugashaldim, take them in. Support team Razitshakra and myself will maintain watch here. Maintain radio silence until you’ve scouted the ground thoroughly, then I want to know what’s in there.” Ashnak nodded. “Okay, go.”

The three marines drew hammers and pitons from their assault vests and, muffling the noise of the strokes, drove staples into the wall up to head height. Lugashaldim swarmed up the wall, and began to drive higher pitons in. The other two marines followed. Slowly, almost silently, they reached the top of the fifty-foot wall.

Razitshakra whimpered.

Barely warned, Ashnak hit the ground, covering the back of his neck with both horn-hided hands. A searing flare of blue light crisped his vision. Heat burned his back, even through his urban camouflage jacket. He heard a scream that grew louder and cut off, a thud, and then two more solid, bone-crushing impacts, felt through the earth. An unearthly wail split the night.

Ashnak scrambled to his feet.

“Bug out, marine!” He slapped Razitshakra’s shoulder. “Go, go, go! Corporal! Move it!”

The siren blared. Lugashaldim pounded past him, away from the walls. Ashnak sprinted, combat boots ringing on the cobbles, into the safety of the dark alleys. He loped quietly, and almost as fast, for ten minutes. The commando unit slowed and regrouped.

“Magical…defences… very strong…” Razitshakra bent double, squat orc body heaving. Her ears drooped from vertical to horizontal. “I’ve never run into anything like it, General! I never anticipated they’d have something like that.”

Ashnak turned to Lugashaldim. “Your orcs all right, Corporal?”

“Yessssah!” Lugashaldim brushed lumps of charred flesh from his rotting chest, legs, and face. His decomposing fingers smoked. Part of the back of his skull had been smashed in by the fall. The two other marines were in a similar state.

“Undead marines do make the best commandos,” Ashnak observed. “Good command decision, though I say so myself. Marine Razitshakra, what chance is there of getting through those defences with explosives?”

The female orc brushed wretchedly at her spectacles. Shattered glass fell from one frame, where the magical impact had knocked her flying. “Almost none. Those are Repeating Ring defences. Knock one down and there’ll just be another. I didn’t think a research establishment…We’re fucked, General.”

The moon rose higher. Fourgate’s houses gleamed with lamplight, and Ashnak could hear the talk and laughter from salons five streets away. Orcs on the streets of Fourgate were not exactly inconspicuous.

“We’re in a city. I’ve been in cities before. I know what we need…”

The Undead marines and Razitshakra stared at their commanding officer. Ashnak widened his grin, fangs glinting in the starlight.

“General, look out!”

His peaked ears swivelled, catching the noise of footsteps coming down the road. Quite a number of them: casual, non-urgent.

Using silent hand signals, Ashnak directed the orc marine commandos towards the far end of the alley.

Perdita del Verro flicked her glossy brown hair into neatness with the same minor magery that reddened her cold cheeks and lips. The tips of her pointed ears stung with the frost. Her eyes shone, her breath huffed visibly on the air. She about-faced.

Her spellcast pigeon perched on the battlements of Nin-Edin, blank silver eyes fixed. Perdita gave it her sexiest smile.

“This is Perdita del Verro reporting to you , the loyal readers of Warrior of Fortune. Well, I’ve fallen on my feet here, quite unexpectedly. I’m in the Nin-Edin fort, in the orc encampment, engaged in a siege that has already lasted a whole week. There’s certainly plenty of action—the Light Mage in the besieging camp favours heavy spells from the St. Baphomet Cartulary Grimoire, his elves-at-arms have made a dozen attempts to storm the walls, there may also be sappers at work—but still this garrison is holding out!”